


Third Time Lucky

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anxiety Attacks, Archaeologist Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Cults, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Angst, Murder, PTSD, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 40,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: One life is more than enough for most people, but Castiel is not most people.His early life as part of a closed cult has left him with huge gaps in his knowledge of pop culture, and after a decade in New York, where he forges himself a new life as a successful museum curator, art-collector and best friend, his inner voice sounds suspiciously like his therapist.Those two things are all he has left of his previous lives by the time he meets Dean Winchester.  He is drifting aimlessly from town to town with no real purpose, not really caring much for anything or anyone, least of all himself.But there is something about Dean, just like there was about his best friend Bal and he finds himself trusting the young man instinctively. So despite being so determined never to let tragedy strike again, he starts to hope that it's third time lucky.





	1. Prologue - The Present Day

PROLOGUE

"I don't know where to begin.. " Cas states to the officer sitting across from him. The room they ushered him into to file the Missing Person Record is poorly decorated and the table shows the marks of many interviews. Cigarette burns pepper the chipped Formica top and it’s tacky to the touch. He leans back, right hand rubbing his eyes, left one hung over the back of the chair away from the grubby surface. He is mentally and physically exhausted, hours spent worrying and searching everywhere he could think of catching up with him.

The detective sighs, shuffling his papers and picking up his pen. "Usually it’s best to start at the very beginning. Why don’t we go back to the day he went missing…”

“That’s not really the beginning…” Cas interjects, but Officer Mooney’s glare dismisses his demur.

“You say you last saw,” he consults his notes, “Mr Winchester, the day before yesterday. What happened that day?"

Cas clears his throat and sits up. "It was... it was just a normal day. I woke up early, cooked breakfast, and we ate out on the stoop. He left to go to the store, but he never came back."

“The stoop? Ain’t it a little cold for Al Fresco dining?”

Cas' throat goes dry, he licks his lips, dropping his hand into his lap. "Dean’s house is just a vacation place really, it backs out directly to the beach. It’s nice, even at this time of year, with the ocean breeze and all that.”

“When you say Dean’s house, I can assume your registered address is somewhere else?”

Cas shakes his head, “I don’t have a registered address, I was… travelling, when we met. Dean was on a road trip, taking an extended break... we temporarily moved in a month or so after we started seeing each other, and it kind of became our home by accident." The detective’s pen stops moving shortly before underscoring NFA in the address column. He is no longer making any notes now, merely watching Cas with hooded eyes.

Mooney raises an eyebrow. "No arguments, no fights? No reason to assume that he might want to leave you?”

Cas shakes his head. “It was- it is Dean’s house, so if anyone were to leave after a fight it would have been me.” The eyebrow reaches even higher, a sure gold medal in the Scepticism Olympics. Cas tenses. _Here it comes_.

“It’s just, with your record, Mr Novak-"

"I haven’t used that name since I was a teenager.” He sounds defensive, even to his own ears. “Also, I do not have a criminal record."

"You were charged with murder, Mr Novak. The murder of your ‘close personal friend’ no less.” The way he emphasizes the words makes Cas’ skin crawl and confirms everything he already suspects about Officer Mooney.

“That charge was dropped.” Cas swallows and forces the clenching muscles in his jaw to relax. “I was cleared and released.”

“Yes you were.” The man’s eyes are flecked grey like slate, and Cas finds it hard to hold his gaze. “And that might mean that my colleagues in NYPD were mistaken, of course.” Mooney leaves the double meaning of the sentence hanging in the silence between them. Letting it grow into something uncomfortable. Oh, if only he really knew, he is messing with the master’s apprentice on this one. Castiel was taught by the best, he can outwait glaciers. Eventually, the detective cracks. “If you were in my shoes, Novak, what would you think? How would it look to you?”

“I’d think innocent until proven guilty,” Cas mutters angrily, ignoring the dropped title. “I just want you to find Dean.”

The half-smile he’s given does not reach those cold, cold eyes. “I’ll level with you, Novak, at the moment I don’t think we will find him. Not alive anyway. And even then only if you, as my prime suspect, decide to tell us where you put him."


	2. Angel of the Morning

The highway is a never ending strip of grey flat top through a baked landscape. He has lost track of how long he has been walking, body aching to stop, mind empty of anything but placing one dust covered foot in front of the other, because if he lets himself think, all he can see is broken, bloody remains and the black empty eyes of the creature hunching over a corpse in the clutter of their shattered home. Even after all this time, it hurts too much to let himself remember. Kind, gentle, loyal Balthasar, all soft touches and kind eyes, all his sharp tongued humour and mischievousness… No! Left, right, left, right, left...

He counted his money yesterday, or was it the day before? It doesn’t matter. He hasn’t bought anything in days. He knows he has precisely ten dollars and 32 cents left in his pocket. They had handed him back his wallet full of shiny plastic when they released him all those months ago, bumpy silver letters spelling out the name of the man he can no longer be. C J Milton, museum archivist, philanthropist, art collector, friend.

That day he withdrew his daily limit from the ATM, bought a ticket to LA with his AMEX and then he threw his old life away into the trashcan of a fast food concession on a draughty bus terminal just outside New York. Plastic leaves a trail and Castiel had no wish to be found by anyone who might choose to look for him.

He stared at the empty wallet, laying on top of the discarded tickets, crumpled burger wrappers and worse. He couldn’t bring himself to leave it there.

***

_The box slid across the table and he stared at it, confused. “It’s a gift, Cassie. It IS your birthday today, isn’t it?”_

_He took it into his hands, as if it were a most precious and delicate thing, lifting the lid made of brightly coloured cardboard, the tissue inside crinkling under his touch, acidic pink and crumpled. He scrunched it out of the way and stared at the contents. The leather was soft, fine grained and stained a deep rich burgundy brown. He stroked it, a tentative movement, sliding his fingertips over the warm surface._

_“If you don’t like it we can always take it back… I just thought… now that you have ID and cards…”_

_He blinked back the sudden flush of tears. _

_“Hey, no, no, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Jesus…” _

_“I love it. Honestly. It’s just… it’s my first ever present. Celebrating birthdays was forbidden… it's personal hubris, a sin of pride.”_

_He stared up into the shocked face of the man who had taken him in and asked him for nothing in return. Given him shelter, food, clothing - a name - and shown him nothing but patience and kindness. Accepted his idiosyncrasies, his awkward naivety and his complete lack of cultural and social awareness. And he knew, in that moment, no-one would ever take care of him this well, or care for him as much. It made him sad that he could never love him back like he deserved._

_***_

_He spent several minutes sliding his fingers over the bookshelves in a Goodwill store among a tiny strip of shops that made up the main street of the small town he’d found himself in, a place so far off the beaten track it’s a wonder there is enough custom to keep them open. He leafed through one or two of the books, before he finally followed through on his intentions and handed over the wallet as a donation. He had carried it around in his pocket for weeks now. Just another hollow reminder he needed to get rid of. The elderly matron behind the counter smiled broadly at him. _

_"This is a very expensive wallet," she told him, her voice melodic and vaguely hypnotic. "I can't pay you for a donation, but there's a pawn shop just outside town. Old Man Peabody runs it out of his barn…"_

_He shook his head. "I don’t want anything for it. It was a gift from a dear friend." Why the hell was he confiding in this old woman? He's barely said anything to anyone for weeks, and now, here, he feels the need to explain himself? "I just- I just need to let it go and I couldn't bear to just throw it away."_

_If she thought he was a weirdo, she hid it well. She patted his hand. "Peabody would probably think you stole it, anyways. Never met a darker soul than his, judges everyone by his own standards."_

_“I can swap it for something. There must be something you need.” He caught sight of his own reflection in the glass of a framed poster print behind her cash desk and for a brief moment, he saw himself through someone else’s eyes. Scruffy, dirt of the road ingrained despite taking every opportunity to wash and clean himself. Shuffling from place to place with no purpose, a shell of a man as empty as his old wallet. He started to shake his head, the focus of his eyes shifting to the contents of the frame, a poster of Martin Luther King. “Somewhere along the way, we must learn there is nothing greater than to do something for others.” And so he realised, _She needs this as much as I do_._

_He glanced longingly at the books, but settled on a medium sized backpack, thinking that even though it’s capacity was far greater than he would need, it would be better than thrusting things into the pockets of his trench and maybe he could buy, keep and refill a bottle rather than relying on public fountains. _

_He spent the morning lugging boxes in Missouri’s storeroom, the afternoon helping her restock the bookshelves, surprising himself with how much he enjoyed her quiet, undemanding company. He ended up staying the whole day and still felt he was handing her the short end of the stick when he left with the backpack at the end of the day._

_He had hitched and walked another two towns by the time he had cause to open the bag for the first time. Thrusting his frugal purchases into its depths as he left the Just a Dollar store, he felt soft fabric under his hands. He crossed the street and sat on a bench on the edge of a small park. He pulled at the fabric, recognising it as a T-shirt. Beneath that a hoodie. Thinking they must have been left in there as an oversight, he yanked them free of the bag to examine his good fortune. They unravelled over his lap and spilled socks, shorts and a see-through plastic bag with flannel, deodorant, razors, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and soap onto the grass at his feet. He felt in the bottom of the bag and pulled out the paperback anthology of poems he had been fascinated by in the store. A single twenty tucked into its first page. _

_He cried himself dry that night, sitting on a park bench, surrounded by the scattered evidence of a stranger’s kindness._

***

In the year since, he has hitched and walked his way through seven states and learnt much about how to protect himself. He is wary and careful of the rides he accepts. He has no destination in mind, no need of company, and no pressing urgency to cover the distance, so he can refuse if he doesn’t feel safe, which in truth he does more often than not.

There is something satisfying in walking until he is so exhausted that he can sleep wherever he lies, so much so that the concerns for his safety become nothing more than an excuse to do so. Today though, the sun is unforgiving. It beats on his back and forces his meagre water supply out of his pores, and there isn’t a building in sight anywhere on the flat plain that stretches as far as the mountains in the East and the horizon in all other directions. When he hears the purr of an engine somewhere behind him, he glances at the lone occupant of the sleek black car approaching through the shimmering heat haze, shrugs all indecision aside and calmly raises his thumb.

*******

He wakes slowly, disoriented. Saliva thick in his mouth, the potential hangover hovering low in his skull. He hears another breath. Not his own. Two breaths, his own and the one warm against his neck. This is not a normal morning. Memories of a bar, far too many drinks, making out in the parking lot and drunken fumblings before they drifted to sleep return, garbled and rolling around one another like playful puppies. Did he? Did he bring someone home last night?

He opens his eyes and the answer is an obvious no. Longer-term memory returns placing him in the here and now, he no longer has a home. He accepted a lift yesterday from a total stranger, got off his face on cheap beer and, he licks around inside his mouth experimentally, equally cheap liquor. He glances down at his own naked chest and the hand curled there possessively. He is not accustomed to being little-spoon. Unless you count his brief spell with Meg at the commune. Meg, who rode his back literally and figuratively for a few short months until they both regained their senses and returned to being friends.

The hot breath behind his ear, reminds him of her playful, melodic voice, as she slid her fingers into his groaning body, _“You know Clarence, you are far too into this to play at being the Leader’s favourite son for the rest of your life.”_

Behind him the owner of the real hot, hot breath shifts and Castiel tenses. This is definitely not Meg or any of her ilk. Not if the solid heat pressing against his lower back is anything to go by. “Morning Angel,” and memory rushes back in full technicolour as rich and deep as the timbre of that drawling voice. Dean Winchester. He accepted a ride. Spent the day riding in sex on four wheels, with the most beautiful man he has ever seen. And then, because he is a weak fucking fool and he can’t hold his liquor, he slept with the man. amongst other things. “I know you’re awake, Steve.” Oh, yes, he’s awake alright. He doesn’t just hear Dean’s voice, he _feels_ it all the way from his shoulder blades to the curve of his ass. It crawls down his spine, igniting lazy currents of pleasure. He shivers.

“Man, you are tighter wound than a Brumby on a short rein. Relax. You OK with this?” Soft kisses press to the back of his neck, and heaven help him he doesn’t want this to stop, he grumbles permission, nodding his head and stretching to give better access. Gasping as soft lips give way to sharp nipping teeth. Behind him, a hard cock slides between his sweat-slick cheeks and nudges the back of his balls. He lets out a moan and ruts shamelessly into the hand that swipes lazily over his head, collecting precome and gripping him just a little shy of tight enough. Even, so he isn’t going to last long.

“I’m sorry, I’m gonna come, I’m sorry” he mumbles mindlessly, “Please, oh, please.”

“I got you, sweetheart, I got you.”

Although the whisky soaked voice is nothing like his friend’s vaguely European mish-mash of accents, the endearment reminds him of Balthasar. Before he can stop himself he’s crying for only the third time since he lost everything again. It doesn’t slow the rock of his hips or stop the buzzing tingle pooling in his gut from tightening his balls. He jerks backwards, squeezing his thighs tight, determined to reciprocate some of the pleasure he is feeling. He chokes on a sob, “I’m so close.”

A final rough slide ends with a sharp jab to his perineum, “Let it go, Steve, come for me.” And that is all it takes, he spills hot, with a ferocious overwhelmed cry and whites out.

***

He is alone when he wakes a second time, wiped clean and deeply rested. Even this cheap mattress feels decadent to his street-toughened body. He sighs and stretches into a comfortable starfish, giving himself a few more precious moments. He wonders whether he has time for a shower before the inevitable knock on the door ends his temporary accommodation. He hopes against hope that Dean paid for the room. He has no idea whether this is a pay up front motel or a check out hotel. He nags at his limited and alcohol dimmed memories. He’s sure he had been propped against a railing briefly last night, watching the finest ass he’s seen this side of Manhattan disappear through a doorway. Moments later he’d refastened himself, octopus like, back around firm muscles and sneaked the opportunity to grope, OK, OK, he admits it, the finest ass he’s had the pleasure of feeling, ever. Period.

He has just sighed heavily and thrown back the covers ready to lurch to the bathroom when the unmistakable sound of a key rasping in a lock drags his attention to the door. He is over the side of the bed and dropping to the floor out of sight, before he even realises what he is doing. The rapid pump of his heart, spreading the flush of fight or flight panic throughout his system.

***

Racy’s Diner and Grill is a hive. Patrons fill every available booth, and there isn’t a spare seat to be had on the long counter, but that is fine with Dean, he is after take-out. The waitress flirts with him outrageously and he enjoys her attention without really returning it and hums happily to himself as he makes his way back to the impala. With one bag gripped between his teeth and his other purchases balanced precariously in one hand he unlocks his Baby.

It’s a short drive back up the highway past the spit and sawdust roadhouse and into the lot of the Motel, the neon light offering ‘vacancies’ dull in the bright sunlight, he parks up and wonders whether Steve Angel is still asleep. He feels a little guilty for this morning, but his consent seemed enthusiastic enough. When he pretty much passed out straight after, barely even stirring as Dean wiped him gently clean and crept quietly from the room, he worried that maybe he took advantage. The man is way too thin and he looked exhausted when Dean stopped to give him a ride yesterday. He smirks at his own unintentional double entendre. He hadn’t really meant to stop for the hitcher, but there was something to the stoop of his shoulders under the tan trench coat that panged at Dean Winchester’s not very well hidden altruistic streak.

He repeats his trick with the provisions and swings open the door to their room. The bed is empty and he places the keys, bag and cup holder onto the table just inside the door, stifling his disappointment. Of course, why would he stay? Then he spots a tuft of dark hair and one brilliant blue eye peeking above the crumpled coverlet.

He smirks. “Don’t tell me: You were Michigan State Hide and Seek Champion three years running.”

Angel squints at him with his head slightly cocked, he bites his lip, and says without inflection, “I have never been to Michigan. At least I don’t think I have.”

Dean bites back the urge to laugh, “What’ya doin on the floor, buddy?”

“I, uh, fell.” Angel blushes, the lie is lame as hell. “You startled me.”

Dean lets his eyebrows signal his incredulity, “I startled you right outta bed and onto the floor?” He strides across the room and offers his arm, pulling the man to his feet. He seems taller, now that he is not sitting, listing under the influence or horizontal. He is also completely naked and obviously not bothered by it. Eyes up, Winchester. Do not follow the blush to see how far it goes, do not.

Angel notices. Of course, he does. “You did not seem so shy this morning,” he comments, “... or last night from what I remember.”

“I… er… no. I just…” he is saved from whatever embarrassment is about to escape his lips when Angel’s stomach latches onto the pleasant aroma of the take out and gives a rumble to rival Krakatoa. “I take it breakfast was a good idea,” he says triumphantly.

Angel darts into the bathroom, and Dean briefly mourns the view, assuming that he will return clothed and ready to eat, “I had no idea what you like, so I pretty much grabbed two lots of my own favourites and a few interesting extras,” he raises his voice through the closed door. “I hope you like your coffee strong as hell...this stuff is weapons grade.”

He stops talking when a still very naked Angel reappears, hands dripping slightly and beelines for the foodbags, nose twitching like a bloodhound after a scent. He sits himself down delicately at the table, and Dean stows his surprise and flops down in the chair opposite. They eat in companionable silence, until Dean reveals the contents of the last bag, a pair of gooey cronuts soaked in maple syrup and coated with a dusting of bacon crumbs. The whispered “Fuck!” is the first time he remembers hearing Angel swear.

After his first bite Angel stares at him as if he personally resolved the world’s energy crisis and discovered the cure for cancer.


	3. Plastic Man

The Collective

Castiel is tired, bone-weary, he has been up since before the dawn completing his chores to allow time for Services and Communion and the Elder talks that seem to be getting increasingly longer and more time-consuming every day. Between this, his work on the farm and commitments with the youth groups and seniors he barely has a minute to himself, between daybreak and falling exhausted into his bed. This, he suspects is deliberate. It is nearly two years since Brother Gabriel’s shunning, but the shock of it has certainly made the Elder Council more cautious. A man too tired to think is too tired to question.

“Castiel, come. Walk with me. I would converse with you.” It may sound like a request, but no-one in The Collective would even think to openly reject the Leader’s requests.

“Yes, Leader,” Castiel says. He glances back to his friends, reluctant to not be going with them towards the enticing smell of breakfast in the food hall. Meg rolls her eyes behind the Leader’s back and links arms with Inias and Uriel, dragging them away with her.

“I am sorry to keep you from spending time with Sister Margaret and your friends”, based on recent evidence, Castiel has no cause to believe him, the distinction The Leader makes between Meg and his friends is not lost on Castiel either. He suspects that they are marked for one another. The Leader’s robes are dusty where the hem skirts the ground. The swish of the harsh fabric is hypnotic as he moves. They are walking away from the buildings out towards the crop fields and the reed ponds.

“I think it is not a secret, amongst the brethren that I regard you as my son, Castiel,”

He knows he has long been considered a favoured son, his mother, bless her blinkered heart, had been so proud of him, her only son, singled out for such an honour. His parents had been founder members of The Collective. Friends with the Leader from before it’s creation, here since the very beginning. And for the longest time, Castiel was the obedient son, following orders and never questioning his place. Her death has granted him the freedom to do more, sharing his concerns with his closest friends. “You are a father to us all, Leader,” Castiel answers demurely.

“Indeed, Castiel,” The Leader pauses and drops a hand to Castiel’s shoulder. “Your mother was an incredible asset to the Collective. A truly inspirational woman. She was a great loss to us all.”

Castiel nods, he has cried his tears for his mother, he loved her and honoured her while she lived. He had tried only once to raise his concerns about The Collective with her, but she saw only good in The Leader and the Elders. She had sent him to repent without his supper and made him recite aloud from The Teachings for hours until his throat grew sore and his voice broke. After a week, she asked him if he still doubted. It was the first time he ever lied to her.

“Many of the older children look to you, Castiel, as an example. They see you, as my favoured son, and they model their behaviour on you. And it’s important work. I sometimes find it hard to reach them once they begin to leave behind their fledgling status and especially as they near adulthood. I am a parent to many and like any good parent, sometimes I have to do things for my children’s own good, that they may not like, or may seem harsh to them, that is my service to this community. My boy, they like you, and they trust you. You are my tool, just as I am the Lord’s.”

“I enjoy my work in the youth groups,” Castiel affirms. “It is no hardship for me to listen to their concerns and reassure them that all is, and will be, well.” It is not a lie, not really.

“And your lessons, with the younger children? Are you finding Brother Jack an effective assistant?” The question is too casual. And Castiel bends to untie and refasten a shoelace, buying himself time to answer. Jack is an anomaly. He came to The Collective as a teenager, none of the other children has ever been outside this commune. He is a quiet boy and says little about his past, mainly, as Castiel learns once he has earned Jack’s trust because Jack spent many weeks in The Quarantine Rooms when he first arrived at The Commune and has no wish to go back in there. The Leader has made it clear that if he begins to talk to the rest of the Brethren about his past, he will be isolated for the Greater Good.

The Leader had simply introduced Jack as a long lost child of The Collective, during a morning meeting. Informing Castiel along with everyone else, that “Brother Jack will replace Sister Margaret as Brother Castiel’s helper with the younger children.” Adding privately to Castiel that he should “report back to me and only me if you have any concerns or think he needs help adjusting”.

Needless to say he has never ‘reported back’ anything other than how well Jack has settled in. Castiel thinks Jack has enough on his plate without the kind of support and guidance The Leader and the elders have to offer.

Officially all that Castiel knows is that Jack’s mother was once a member of The Collective. But, Jack has been able to tell Castiel that he was abandoned as a baby and raised just outside the city of Cincinnati in a group home (one of the many things about the outside world that he has patiently explained to Castiel) No-one has ever spoken of the woman, and Castiel does not dare to ask any of the elders who she was, nor how or why she left the compound or about Jack’s father. He has even scanned his father’s diaries for clues, but the last of them ends several months too soon. A full year before Jack would have been conceived.

“The children love him,” Castiel offers carefully, “and I find his company soothing. He is a quiet and attentive, a most effective assistant.” He lifts his head and catches a look on The Leader’s face. It is gone in a flash, replaced with his usual benign and benevolent gaze, but for a split second Castiel saw something altogether more calculated and cold. The Leader offers his hand and pulls Castiel to his feet. His grip is firm and his palm sweaty. Castiel resists the urge to wipe his own hand on his clothes.

They resume their leisurely walk, or rather The Leader resumes his stroll and Castiel has little option but to follow.

“I am glad. I was,” he makes every appearance of searching for a suitable word. Castiel is not fooled, he waits patiently for the no doubt well-rehearsed sentence to complete. “...concerned that he would find the adjustment difficult.”

Castiel offers no comment. In truth, Jack is a contradiction. Innocent and wide-eyed as the children they teach in some things, knowing and determined in others.

The Leader pauses and they stand together looking out across the graveyard at the edge of their land. Just beyond those trees are the fences. It was only once the scales had fallen from Castiel’s eyes that he noticed that the barbed wire tops curled inward as well as outward.

“Your father would have been very proud of you, Castiel. He was a great man and my very good friend. It has been an honour to stand in his place and watch you grow. And I know he would approve of my plans for you, but come, those may wait for another day, I have kept you long enough from your breakfast, you are growing to be a strong and healthy man, and healthy men need both physical and spiritual nourishment. I trust you will remember that in the coming days.”


	4. Here It Goes Again

New York

“The last of the crates have arrived, CJ,” Hannah sounds excited as she dashes into the huge exhibition room. She almost trips over Castiel, on his hands and knees testing one of the wax rubbing kits on the replica hieroglyphic tablets set up to enable children to make their own pictures to take home. “Wow,” she says, “CJ, that looks amazing.”

He grins up at her, feeling more than a little pleased with himself. Egypt, The Rise of An Empire is his first exhibition in charge and they have managed to borrow early dynasty antiquities from all over the globe. Where they haven’t been able to acquire pieces on loan, he has managed to gain permission for replica pieces to be made. It’s quite the coup. But Castiel is most pleased with the interactivity he has introduced to the vaguely stuffy atmosphere of the museum, so her praise makes him feel a little giddy.

His boss, Adler, a soulless man, more interested in his spreadsheets and bottom lines than educating and entertaining the public, is grudgingly impressed, although Castiel suspects this is mainly because of the positive response of their benefactors during their sneak peek visit.

He tweaks the plan again, cataloguing the final few items. He too is excited to open the crates and put the final touches to the exhibit, but that must wait. Today is Bal’s birthday and he has promised his best friend his full and undivided attention for the evening. A meal in his favourite restaurant, a little pretentious fusion place that Castiel has never understood the appeal of, tickets to Hamilton and, if he knows Bal as well as he thinks he does, they will end up in the club, while Bal tries to convince him that the only way to get over his recent messy break-up with Bart is to jump right back on the horse.

Bal, with his stable of paramours, will never understand that sometimes, a man would rather just stretch his legs alone.

***

He rides the subway to get home. It’s tourist-filled, so close to the museum and this early in the afternoon. In an hour or so the rush hour will begin and it will flood with commuters. He sits, as is his habit when he has the choice, in a seat near the door. The years of therapy may have helped some, but Castiel just feels easier if he has unrestricted access to the nearest exit.

A family are boarding, a flustered, red-faced mother clutching the wrist of a snivelling toddler, face smeared with ice-cream - or snot - it’s hard to tell. The father is clutching a baby to his chest and struggling with luggage and a buggy. Castiel is on his feet and helping, catching a grateful, exhausted smile from the mother and muttered thanks from the father as he sets their belongings down. With a sliding beep the doors are closing and Castiel is just dropping into his seat when he glances up to the dark of the window opposite him, catching his own reflection. It is not, however, his own face that snags his attention, it is the cold set eyes and sharp jawline just behind his shoulder. He jumps from his seat, springing a full 180, heart pounding, but they are already gathering speed, the passengers on the platform blurring into a mass of dark colours.

His barely hears the concerned voices of the parents he has just helped over the buzzing in his ears, pinching at the band on his wrist, flicking it against his skin, focussing on his breathing to prevent himself from passing out.

***

Balthasar lifts his head, with a distracted smile as Castiel shucks off his shoes and drops his keys into the metal dish in the hall. “You’re back early…” his voice trails away and his expression changes to one of concern. He has already closed half the space between them, “Sweetheart, what happened? Is it Bart? Has he been pestering you again?”

Castiel is already shaking his head, “No, it wasn’t Bart. It’s nothing, I’m just being stupid…”

But Bal is having none of it. “We both know you are incapable of being stupid,” he says calmly and Castiel lets himself be swept up into a comforting hug. Firm fingers are sweeping wide circles over his back and his arm and he lets himself crumple a little, burying his head in the older man’s shoulder.

He loses track of time as he inhales comfort and peace. He is completely relaxed by the time, Bal lets him pull back, gently chucking his chin with knuckles. “Wanna talk about it?”

Castiel hesitates, “Our dinner reservations… I need to shower and change… “

“You do smell like one of your precious mummies,” Balthasar jokes softly, “but psht… dinner is cancelled unless you really don’t want to tell me what has you trembling so. I’ll cook, and if,” he ignores Castiel’s stuttered protests, “_if_ you are up to it, we’ll just go straight to the Theatre from here. Now, you shower and I’ll start throwing together a little something, unless you need me to keep you company in the bathroom?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m OK - I…” He lets his shoulders drop. “Thanks Bal.”

He sits on the toilet lid as Balthasar makes short work of setting the shower to the perfect temperature and lining up a little row of bottles. It should irk him to be treated like something so fragile and delicate, but Balthasar has always been able to read him like this, instinctively knows just when to push and just when to leave him in peace. Not for the first time, Castiel considers just how lucky he is that it was Balthasar who happened upon him when he first arrived in this city, vulnerable and ripe for the picking.

A fine spray of water, deflected by Bal’s upturned arm under the thundering flow of the shower falls fresh across his exposed skin. “Perfect,” Bal mumbles as he uses his other hand to lift Castiel’s chin. “Right. You. Hop in. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be in the kitchen.” And then he is alone. He looks along the little line of bottles, each one scented with essential oils as he strips off his work clothes.

By the time he makes his way out of the bathroom, towelling his damp hair, he feels truly relaxed and properly centred. Bal’s little something is, as always, beautifully presented and smells absolutely delicious. He takes in the perfectly laid countertop, chopsticks, bowls and ochoko, the set he bought Bal from an antique store with his first paycheck as a thank you.

They eat, and the yakisoba lives up to its aroma. Bal pours him more warm Sake and waits patiently, watching him discreetly as he clears his own bowl.

“I thought I saw _him_. At the subway. He was behind me on the platform, or I thought he was.”

“Did he try to touch you or...” Balthasar sounds alarmed.

“No,” Castiel interrupts hastily, “it was just a reflection, a flash of reflection, as we were leaving the station, I was already in the car, but for a minute, for just a minute, I was convinced it was him. Staring at me, just like at The Commune. Like he could see into my soul and I just, well, I more or less fainted on a family from Arkansas. I told you, it’s stupid.”

“Nothing about this is stupid, Cassie, well maybe the family from Arkansas detail is a little bizarre, but tell me, honestly, are you having the nightmares again? Cassie, do you need to see Dr. Linda?”

Castiel shakes his head and gives Bal a wan smile, before ducking back down to his meal. “No, I’m fine, now. And I haven’t had even a hint of bad dreams for months. I think that’s why it shook me so. Honestly, with all the prep work and the exhibits shipping in, I haven’t given The Collective, or him, a second thought for weeks. I guess I’m not as strong as I thought, eh?”

“Sweetheart, you are the strongest, most resilient man I have ever met. After everything you’ve been through, well,” Balthasar patted his shoulder as he clears his own bowl to the deep sink in the kitchen island, “it’s a miracle you are still here.”

Castiel snorts. “A miracle? Probably not your best choice of words, Bal.”

His friend hisses at his own thoughtlessness, “Indeed, but my point still stands. You are far from weak, Cassie. Now, criminal as it may be to cover it up, get that cute little tush off my barstool and into something more suitable for the theatre. I have a yearning for an evening of high-end culture, followed by a night of bridled debauchery.”

“Don’t you mean ‘unbridled?”

Castiel laughs as Bal catches his eye and arches his brow, “This time, I chose my words carefully, Castiel. Very carefully.”


	5. Here Without You

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Dean asks carefully, leaning back a little in his seat to ease the pressure on his overfull stomach. On a whim, he paid the room up for the rest of the week before he went foraging for food. Seeing Angel peacefully curled in the motel bed as though it’s tough spring mattress were the softest of feather beds had made him want to extend that comfort a little longer, but now he’s not sure how to tell the man what he’s done. It seems presumptuous and the fact that he practically pounced on him this morning before he was really awake doesn’t make it any easier. If he were in Angel’s shoes, he might think, well.... Dean does, desperately, want to spend the time getting to know him, but that was not his initial motive. He doesn’t want Angel to feel obligated, or that Dean’s intention was to give them somewhere to fuck. And now that he comes to think about it, that must be exactly how it will look. 

Angel, unaware of Dean’s quandary, simply shrugs, mouth still chomping on the last bite of cronut. He has eaten it with such obvious pleasure that Dean wishes he had bought more of the damn things. Angel is handsome, even dog-tired and covered in dust. But fresh from the shower, with that faint calm smile playing on his slightly chapped lips, he is stunningly beautiful. His name suits him he looks like an Angel with the softly filtered sunlight playing in his hair like a halo.

Even on short acquaintance, he’s funny, self-deprecating, kind of awkwardly charming, with his honest declarations and apparent lack of modesty, clearly deeply intelligent despite some glaring gaps in his pop culture knowledge, a total enigma, but what Dean has learned of him in the hours they spent talking on their journey yesterday and in the bar last night has piqued his interest and he wants to know him better. Their conversation yesterday had been stilted until a single bee had whipped in through the open window and far from swatting it, his companion had carefully and delicately captured the small insect and insisted Dean stop immediately so he could release it without further harm. 

_“She’s an Italian honey bee. She needs to be able to get back to her hive or she won’t survive.”_

_Dean rolled his eyes, glanced in his mirror and pulled to the shoulder with a sigh.“OK, Brigham Young, don’t get your panties in a knot. How’d ya know its a señorita anyway?”_

_“All worker bees are female.” Angel held her out for Dean to inspect, before winding down his window and letting her fly off into the breeze. “See the pollen on her leg hairs, she’s been collecting nectar. Male bees only purpose is to impregnate the Queen, they have no sting and tend to stay in the hive.”_

_“Sounds like a rough gig,” Dean said wryly, “And the Italian, she tell ya she had a yearning for pizza?”_

_Angel laughed, “No, it’s the soft golden colour, and the fact that she was so docile.”_

_“You think Italian chicks are docile?”_

_“Not the ones in New York, certainly,” Angel grinned at him. “Especially not when some neanderthal calls them ‘chicks’.”_

Dean grins at the memory and realises, he wants nothing more than to listen to the gravel laden voice telling him with enthusiasm all about bees and the honour of tasting 3,000 year old Egyptian honey, or explaining why the monetary worth of antiquities is not always in sync with their educational or academic value. He is in the middle of recognising that he is, in fact, crushing a little, when the angelic illusion before him is shattered by a giant belch. Angel’s hand shoots to cover his mouth and he gives Dean an abashed look and then straight out giggles.

“Excuuuuuse you, “ Dean laughs. 

And then Angel delivers the coup de grâce. He grins. And all hope for Dean is lost, if that quiet smile had him crushing, the gummy toothed grin that lights Angel’s whole face has him smitten. And he wants nothing more than to make him smile like that again.

***

Castiel is shaving for the first time in over a week when he realises how content he feels. He is not stupid and he spent long enough in therapy with Dr. Linda to self analyse much of his own behaviour and recognise his depression for what it is. He has used the techniques she shared with him to carry on existing. He still wears his snapping band, although his anxiety attacks are fewer now, mainly because he has cares too little for life to get anxious. He uses mindfulness to grab snatches of peace from his worst thoughts when they do rear, ugly and visceral. He seeks out green spaces and stray animals and birds in flight to focus on, keeping his mind from his own misery.

But here and now, he has actually done nothing to get through the day, he has just enjoyed Dean’s company. He has drunk and eaten and fooled around, he has _lived_ for a day for the first time in a long time, and he does feel _content_. He stares defiantly at his own reflection, for once he manages to suppress the surge of guilt that tries to spoil his mood.

Dr Linda would be proud. Although, he doubts that she would approve of some of his less healthy coping mechanisms, using exhaustion to defeat nightmares, for example, is definitely not what she meant by ‘keeping active and using exercise to clear his mind’, but it is effective enough. 

He has had no appetite for life for such a long time. He avoids making connections with people and barely eats, which is why when he looks beyond his face in the mirror he can see how thin he has become. His cheeks are in truth a little hollow, but the baggy trenchcoat disguises the rest of his physique; collarbones and shoulders poking angular through his skin, his hip bones have always been sinfully sharp, but the muscles of his legs and arms are too exposed and his ribs are far too prominent. 

He has nearly finished, clearing the stubborn little patch of whiskers in the cleft of his jaw, when he swipes the razor a little clumsily and nicks his skin where it stretches over the bone. It bleeds instantly, profusely, a thick curling rivulet down his neck, and over his chest. Heavy droplets fall from his chin and splash into the water in the basin. A blooded angel. He closes his eyes against the sight, and grips the ceramic to steady himself. But it is too late, the ferrous smell nauseates him and it exaggerates in his mind, and he is lost in memory, staring through an open doorway at what remains of Balthazar, spreadeagled and gutted, a knife jutting in an obscene phallic mockery from his groin. The smell of blood saturating the air in the room. 

He collapses to the ground, dimly aware of the door bursting open. “Angel?”

The rough texture of a towel is scraping over his skin, catching on his stubble with a scratching sound that grates like nails on a blackboard. His limbs are beyond his control and cold tile crashes against his ankles and wrists, he can hear the porcelain clatter of his own teeth as his whole body shakes violently. His chest fights the painful iron grip that stops his lungs inflating, burning and gasping, he gulps at the air, his throat closes and bright ripples of colour flash through his eyes, diminishing as it blackens from the edges in.

A voice reaches him, distant and steady, “You’re safe, Steve, you’re safe. It’s just a little nick. No reason to worry. I’ve got you. S’OK. It’s just a panic attack, you’re gonna be fine, you’re safe and I’ve got you and it will all be all right. You ready to breathe with me. Just a panic attack, you breathe with me and we’ll beat it together, yeah, just breathe with me.”

He feels warmth behind him, around him, under him, the press of skin replacing the harsh clash of tile. He is beyond the ability to resist, and the voice trickles into his ears and vibrates through his rib cage.. “You feel that, feel my chest rise and fall, you breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out. That’s right, breathe with me. I got you Angel, you’re safe. I promise.”

The band of iron slowly loosens and the air pours into his lungs as he focuses on the steady rise and fall of his body where he is pressed against Dean. He lets himself drop into the same rhythm. The fizzing overwhelming swish in his ears quietens and he drops his head to Dean’s shoulder, letting it roll until his face is pressed to the soft flesh of his throat. He can feel Dean’s pulse against the tip of his nose.

***

Dean sighs as he clears the wrappers from their meal into the trash bin, and uses the hand wipes from the bottom of the brown paper bag to wipe the table down. He still hasn’t found the courage to broach the subject of his largesse with the room. 

Angel is using the bathroom, accepting Dean’s offering of a disposable razor and his wash bag with a grateful smile. “Thank you, I’m out of supplies,” he’d admitted, the smile falling from his lips and Dean was ready to fill Baby’s trunk with soap and shower gel if it would ease that troubled look from his face. The ‘keep it’ was hovering somewhere between his throat and his brain, when Angel turns and the bathroom door closes the opportunity. And he shook himself into activity.

With the table clear, he checks his phone, it’s nearly 10. He has to fess up soon, Angel is gonna smell a rat when they don’t get chucked out. Maybe he should just give up on the whole stupid idea and go to the reception and ask for his money back. Or just leave a note and get in his car and drive. What the fuck is he thinking? No way is he pulling an asshole move like that. 

The pipes clunk in the wall as the shower shuts off and his heart races a little. This is goddamn stupid. It’s simple. He’ll just tell him, exactly how it happened. He’s not used to making himself this vulnerable, but then there’s not much about this whole crazy situation that he’s used to. It’s a long time since he’s come back from a bar with a random hook up, and in fairness Angel isn’t really that. This is the first time he’s been intimate with anyone since the ‘we need to talk’ moment shattered his comfortable, if a little dull, life. His phone vibrates for an incoming message, he looks at the contact and hesitates, he is just deciding to ignore it, like he has the other fifty plus unread messages in his inbox when a clattering sound comes from the bathroom, followed seconds later by a small cry and a loud thump. He darts towards the bathroom door, undecided, when he hears the sounds of real distress inside and he is barging the door open without further thought.

“Angel?” 

Castiel is on the floor, partially leant against the wall, chest covered in blood, which is soaking into the towel around his waist. A coil of it runs from his chin, down his neck, and with a flush of relief Dean realises it is just a shaving cut. But that is not the worrying part. Angel’s whole body is wracked with deep tremors, making his limbs jerk, and his eyes are beginning to roll back into his head. He is shaking so fiercely that his feet scrape over the tiles and his fingers flutter against his legs like butterflies fighting glass, his teeth coming together over and over. For a second Dean wonders whether he is having a fit, but then Angel takes a gulping, frantic breath and Dean knows a panic attack when he sees one. Sam had enough of these in his early teens, once they settled back in Lawrence and his father’s alcoholism had truly taken hold. The pressures of school and the awareness of just how _different_ they were taking their toll. Dean shifts automatically into caregiver mode.

He grabs the clean hand towel from the rail and cleans the worst of the blood and remnants of foam from Angel’s face. partly to reassure himself that it is just a shaving cut. All the while he talks softly, keeping his voice calm, telling Angel he is safe and it’s just a panic attack. He needs to get the erratic breathing under control so he does the only thing that worked with Sam, and uses physical contact. He dimly remembers that it might make things worse for some people, but Angel is unresisting as he wraps his arms around his shoulders, hauls him into his lap and pulls him tight to his chest. “You feel that, feel my chest rise and fall, you breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out. That’s right, breath with me. I got you Angel, you’re safe. I promise.”

He’s far lighter than six foot of full grown man should be, and initially, even though the rhythm of their breathing is completely out of kilter, his whole body rises and falls in time with Dean’s breaths, because Dean uses his diaphragm and a slight arch of his back to exaggerate the inflation of his chest. Gradually, they synchronise and Angel’s head drops against Dean’s shoulder, rolling and pressing face first into his neck. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of the still damp, mess of dark hair, “S’OK, Angel, I got you.”

Angel mumbles something into his throat and the brush of his lips, in tandem with the gentle flow of his warm breath causes Dean to shiver. He pulls his chin back and looks down, humming in question.

The incredible blue of Angel’s eyes is impossibly bright as his pupils contract to poppy seeds under the recessed spotlights of the bathroom. He scans Dean’s face and repeats. “Castiel.” Dean stares back at him, puzzled. “My name. It’s Castiel.” Dean takes in the anxious expression and feels the tension in his whole body. He has no idea what the fuck is going on, but this is obviously a big deal to Angel/Castiel, so Dean gives him his trademark shit-eating grin and says, “Hey, Cas.”

***

He drifts slightly as a towel is wrapped around his shoulders, the after effects of the panic attack leaving him feeling weak and detached. Occasional involuntary shudders ripple through him and he begins to feel cold. Dean is carefully cleaning the worst of the blood from his skin, carelessly throwing the ruined towels into the tub in front of them. He yanks the last remaining clean towel down from the rail, and covers them both with it, holding Castiel close, all the while murmuring reassurances, rubbing at his skin through the towels and pressing gentle kisses to his hair, temples and forehead.

He is not sure how long they have been there, when Dean finally clears his throat and shifts underneath him. His voice louder and more conversational, he says “So, Cas...” 

Castiel likes that, it’s new. He was named Castiel by the elders, because he was the first child born of the collective, an angel sent by God and he arrived on a Thursday. He’s hidden as CJ Milton and Steve Angel in turn. He was Clarence, to Meg, and Cassie to Bal, for prior to this moment, Bal was the only being alive to whom he has revealed his true name by choice. He’s glad that he has with Dean, the trust it shows, the level of trust he feels, it just feels _right_. Cas is Dean’s and only Dean’s. His instincts did not fail him with Bal, so he will let them guide him again.

Hands stroke his hair back from his forehead and Dean presses another soft kiss to his hairline and something warm and comfortable blooms in Castiel’s chest, pushing the foul canker of bad memories and the lingering effects of the panic attack further away. Dean mumbles into his hair, “Do you, er, feel ready to move. Only I think my feet are going numb…”

He practically jumps from Dean’s lap. How could he be so selfish? This floor is cold and hard and he’s just sat here like a giant lump of self pity... Dean groans and puts his now free arms down to push himself up from his awkward position on the tile. “I’m s-sorry,” Castiel stutters, and fresh tears spring hot and unbidden. What the hell? He’s like an old tap that’s had the rust knocked away, leaking at the slightest thing.

“Hey,” Dean says, “Cas, chill, it’s cool. Hey, no, hey, none of that… There’s no tears in baseball.”

Castiel wipes angrily at his eyes, “I’m not normally such a crybaby, I…”

“Nuttin’ wrong with crying,” Dean says, and then chuckles, “Wow, that’ll have my Dad spinning like a crankshaft!” He gently lifts Cas’ chin with curled fingers, “S’ good to let it out, bud, but this here, this ain’t a crying matter, s’just a bit of cramp, Cas.”

“You should have said something, we should have moved sooner. I…”

“Last time I’m interrupting you, Cas, I promise. But it’s fine. Let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable and crack a couple of beers. We got all day for you to rub the feeling back in my ass.”

“All day? Don’t we have to check out or somethingt” Castiel eyes him suspiciously, “Was that a flirtation?” 

“No,” Dean protests, looking shifty, “Ok, maybe it was,” he admits, “But honestly, hitting on the hot panic attack victim would be a new low, even for me. I just… shit, Angel, erm, Cas, I mean. About the room, you need to let me explain, it’s honestly not as bad as it sounds.” He stops babbling, swallows and breathes his lungs full. “When I left you sleeping this morning, you looked so peaceful and comfortable and I just wanted to give you that peace and comfort for as long as I could, so I paid the room out for the week when I went to get breakfast.” He pauses and his pretty green eyes flick up for the briefest moment and then he looks away again. Cas is too surprised to respond. It’s sweet, kind and a strange mix of completely unexpected and inevitable. Perhaps he is not the only one feeling this strange bond with a total stranger. _Maybe he just wants to get in your pants,_ his unwanted inner voice sneers, and he focuses on the scattered trail of delicate freckles, dappled over the skin of Dean’s left shoulder like tree shade on the floor of a glade, to silence it.

“...then after breakfast, I suddenly realised it will look like I’m expecting things from you. And that’s not it, I mean I do find you really hot, have you seen you? You’re gorgeous. But I am honestly not expecting you to sleep with me. You don’t owe me nothing, Cas, and I didn’t know how to tell you about the room with making you feel like you do. But I do really wanna get to know you, so I guess maybe I was being selfish and trying to keep you here, when I thought I was being noble and... shit...”

The blush in Dean’s cheeks flares further and deeper the more he speaks, to the point his freckles seem to be hovering over his skin. His words jumble together and tumble over one another and he looks adorably flustered, his eyes flitting anywhere and everywhere rather than look at Castiel.

It’s true he has no way of paying Dean back for the room or the breakfast he has just eaten. He used his last ten dollars to buy their first round of beers last night. It seemed only right, as Dean had refused to accept it as a contribution towards the gas. He returned from the mens room to find the second round and shots already on the table. He supposes, his empty stomach is to blame for his apparent low tolerance, because he barely remembers what they did after that, but Dean must have paid for the rest of their drinks, and now he has forked out for another five, maybe six nights here. And all Castiel has to contribute is 32 cents. Maybe he can offer to wash the Impala. The motel and the roadhouse bar are the only buildings for miles around. So maybe he can get a few hours cash in hand work, cleaning or doing odd jobs and give that to Dean.

He is so deep in his own thoughts he only realises the silence is growing uncomfortably long, just as Dean starts to speak again.

“Shit, man, I mean, you can have the room and I’ll just get back on the road. Or if you wanna go, I can give you a ride anywhere you want, just say the word, although I get it if you just want me to get the fuck out of your face. Shit. I was tryna be nice and I turned it into something weird. I’m so sorry, Cas. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Finally, finally, Dean’s eyes settle on Castiel’s face, focussing on him, trying to get a read as they stare at each other.. “You done?” Castiel asks softly, lips twitching slightly.

And Dean nods miserably. And Castiel needs to put a stop to that emotion right now; he starts to laugh. The are both just so fucking ridiculous. Just like this whole situation. It’s like something from a badly written romcom. And once he starts laughing, he can’t stop. It feels good. He stands and despite feeling weak, holds a hand out to Dean to help him up from the floor.

***

Angel - Castiel - stands over him like a naked Adonis, a slightly scrawny naked Adonis, but hey, a few more cronuts will soon fix that. There are still traces of blood on his skin, and he hasn’t quite finished shaving and his hair is spiking in all directions where it has dried while Dean has been mussing with it. He is holding out his hand to help Dean up and Dean isn’t entirely sure that isn’t going to fall over when he stands, he wasn’t kidding about his numb ass and the lack of feeling in his feet. The pins and needles are starting sharp and hot, but he couldn’t care less, because Cas is laughing. A deep rumbling chuckle, that fills the tiny bathroom - and Dean - with it’s joyful sound. 

And he slips slightly on the wet floor, as he tries to get to his feet, the grip they have of each others biceps, where their forearms overlap is the only point of contact and it’s not enough and he uses the imbalance to pull Cas back into his lap and kisses him through their combined laughter.

They sober up gradually and Castiel gives him a sly side eye. “I thought you said your legs were going numb?”

“They are,” Dean says.

Cas climbs to his feet and this time, he does drag Dean up after him. Surprisingly his legs, although protesting, hold him up and the weird numb sensation in his buttocks begins to recede as he limps towards the bed. 

***

Castiel follows Dean to the bed. His mind, which he supposes should be racing, is strangely quiet. Normally, after a flashback as severe as that one… well, when they first started happening, after he left The Collective, in the early days with Bal, sometimes it took him days to recover a sense of equilibrium. It got easier with time, with the therapy and Bal’s careful, consistent presence in his life, but this time, he actually feels OK. Dr. Linda’s patient voice reminds him, there is no normal, there is only what is. He stretches, clasping his hands and popping his shoulders and back.

Dean sets himself down and pats the comforter beside him, and once they settle beside one another, awkward in a way that hasn’t really happened since the first few hours after Castiel gratefully folded himself into the passenger side of Baby’s front bench, he lifts a surprisingly soft blanket and wraps it around him, fussing it and tucking it in, until he gives a satisfied little nod and leans back. 

He uses the meat of his hand and the edge of the side table to break the crimped metal from cold glass and Castiel loses himself in the myriad jewels of green as a stray beam of sunlight, dancing with dust motes hits the bottle as he turns it in his hands, nestling comfortably in his blanket covered lap. He breathes slow and easy, letting the sense of peace build and then for the first time, in a very long and lonely year, he begins to talk about his past. 

***

Dean wakes first in the morning. Lying with one arm curled protectively around Castiel’s blanket clad figure. He’s kicked his boots off at some point during the night: And pulled the belt from his pants, the buckle tends to dig into the soft flesh of his stomach, the subtle swell of pudge he pretends to himself is not there, when he lies down.

He yawns and scritches his free hand through his hair, a hankering for coffee and bacon nagging gently, but not enough to make him want to shift from the comfort of the motel bed. Castiel’s breath is catching with a soft click in his throat as he sleeps, face relaxed and beautiful in the weak glow of the table light. The surge of affection Dean feels catches him off-guard. He found Cas attractive right from the getgo, but Angel, scratch that, Castiel is… to have been through so much and still be so compassionate and so together ... is extraordinary. Castiel’s life makes his own shit show of an upbringing seem like paradise in comparison. There are parallels, of course. They both know the pain of losing a parent before they really had chance to know them. And they have both suffered at the hands of an abusive and controlling father figure, but this Leader character makes John Winchester look like Parent of the Year.

He is so lost in admiration and awe at the sleeping man next to him, he misses the change in his breathing and it’s far too late to try and pretend he wasn’t doing the creepy sleep watching thing when he realises Cas is staring back at him. Irises flooding with an ocean as pupils recede to pinpricks when Dean moves to fake a yawn and his shadow shifts. 

Cas blinks. “You watching me sleep?” 

Dean feels heat bloom in his cheeks and he knows he’s flustering, the denial dies in his throat as he clears it. “I’m s-”, Dean doesn’t manage to finish the sentence as Cas presses their lips together. It’s chaste and quick, but Dean thinks it’s probably still the most erotic kiss he’s ever had, and before he settled down to his own version of the white picket fence dream with Lisa, Dean had done a lot of kissing.

The light outside fades and the room is dark when he finally. They trade slow lazy kisses, gentle presses and slight nips for no purpose other than the sheer pleasure of kissing each other, until Dean’s stomach decides that bacon is long overdue. Castiel smiles, his teeth shining between his lips in the gloom. “Borborygmus interruptus,” he mumbles.

“Borry borry what now?” Dean asks.

He sucks a soft mark into Cas’ neck, as he valiantly tries to explain. “Borborygmus. It’s the - ah - medical term for a rumbling stomach.”

“Oh so that was a joke?” Dean stretches behind him and flicks the table light off. “You know jokes are meant to be funny right?”

“It’s funny in Latin,” Cas grumbles in reply, spreading his fingers and combing them through Dean’s hair.

“Dude,” Dean replies, arching into the touch and letting his eyes fall closed “it really isn’t.”

“How would you know.” Cas says, simultaneously pulling him back and pressing him into the mattress.

They stare into each other’s eyes in the soft pool of light. “Now if you’d said colitis interruptus…”

“Your stomach.” Kiss. “is demonstrating.” Kiss. “Your hunger.” He nibbles the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Not inflammatory disease.” This time the kiss is deep and when they pull apart they are both a little breathless, and little Dean is getting very interested in proceedings.

It occurs to Dean, that he is getting aroused, lying in bed fully dressed, while a naked man, still spotted with blood in places, debates him about the comedic merits of his bowel movements. It’s a little unusual, but then he concedes to himself, nothing about Cas, or their meeting, is normal. Then Cas, begins to undo the buttons of his jeans, one by one, painfully slowly and he decides he really doesn’t care.

When the velvet heat closes over his aching cock, he doesn’t care that he doesn’t care. He can’t help the jerk of his hips and Cas coughs a half choke and then adjusts, because he is some kind of sex wizard. Strong hands force his hips back to the bed. He’s babbling the kind of nonsense that a man does babble when he doesn’t have enough brain capacity left to check his thoughts, before they spill out of his mouth. 

He risks a glance down, just as a toned arm snakes over his waist and pins him effortlessly to the bed. Muscles flex and bunch under the tan of the forearm, and he focuses on that and the contrast to the paler skin of Cas’ impressively sculpted shoulder. Anything to stop himself from looking at his own flesh disappearing rhythmically into the stretch of pink lips. A circlet of finger and thumb closes around the top of his balls, pulling just shy of too hard, the remaining fingers gently massaging and squeezing. He flexes his stomach muscles once and the arm across his torso gives him just enough leeway to feel the stretch in his taint and the tug at the base of his cock. Cas is going to be the death of him, but what a way to go. He lets his head drop back into his pillow and misjudges it slightly, thunking into the headboard. 

The perfect suction pauses at the noise and without sanction Dean’s hands leave go of the twisted bed clothes and come up automatically, fingers flexing into slightly damp, feather soft hair to stay the movement away. “Please,” it’s a pathetic whimper, with a hint of whining and the bastard chuckles at him around the head of his cock and Dean almost loses it again with the vibration plucking at his pleasure, like a thumb on a guitar string. 

He doesn’t force any direction with his hands or apply any pressure, just tugs and combs, scratching at Castiel’s scalp, in time to the sucking, dragging warmth. It’s not quite enough, until Castiel presses him deeper, nose brushing against Dean’s skin. Dean feels the pop as he slides deep into Castiel’s throat and Cas swallows around the head of his cock and that massaging pulsing sensation is just too much.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He doesn’t want it to be over so soon. He tries desperately to claw himself back from the abyss, to stave off the wave of broiling pleasure. The smell of boiling cabbage, that time he dropped the winning catch in mini league, scratching baby, Trump in pink lingerie, no, don’t think about pink panties, rookie error. He tries to shout a warning, but all that comes out is a garble of ‘coming’ and ‘Cas’ and a groan, and then he’s shuddering and shaking apart and his beautiful, angelic, amazing, bedmate simply carries on swallowing him down and milking his balls until Dean’s wrung out body has nothing left to give.


	6. Stupid Girl

The Collective

“So what did Napoleon want?” Meg asks him as they lie in the meadow grass beyond the furthest barn. It is a rare moment of peace in his crammed day.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Castiel replies honestly, he twists his head, enjoying the way her fingers play lazily with his hair. She grunts slightly with the changing pressure on her stomach. “And be careful who overhears you calling him that. I had to spend two hours last week talking about French history with Elder Raphael because one of the brood asked him about Napoleon during his elder talk and he wanted to know what I had been teaching them and how knowledge of 19th century European history would help them prepare for life in The Collective.

Meg’s chuckle is deep and bobbles his head. “You came up with it!” she protests.

It’s true. He hadn’t needed his father’s scribbled notes to recognise the parallels between their life in The Collective and Animal Farm. Orwell might have written it as an analogy of Soviet Russia, but the echoes were undeniable.

Finding his father’s trunk, dusty and piled under rubbish in the back of the attic had been his awakening. At 13, he had quietly devoured all the books, and reverently cleaned and repacked his father’s things. He barely remembered the flesh and blood man, and the opportunity to know him better through his possessions was irresistible. Far too irresistible to ask his mother’s permission. It was his first-ever act of rebellion.

Castiel had certainly never been told that his father was a published writer. Two novels, some philosophical essays clipped from publications that even Castiel, with his sheltered upbringing, recognised as prestigious and a collection of poems. And it was these that he loved most. His father’s poetry was profound and beautiful.

The four volumes of private diaries, which Castiel pored over, had begun shortly before his parents met. A single perspective love story, chronicling their marriage, Castiel’s birth and his father’s fears for what the commune was becoming. It was clear that his father’s idea was nothing like the dictatorship it has become since. Idealistic and kindly, his father had thought to create a community, like an extended family, democratic and run for the good of all, supporting each other and providing a safe haven for any who wanted it. The isolation and seclusion had all come from The Leader, which was why they had to be so careful what knowledge they displayed. A casual remark could lead to a spell in quarantine for the Greater Good, while the matter was investigated.

Castiel sighs deeply, something about his conversation with The Leader has been troubling him. He thinks he has missed something important, but no matter how he replays their words, he cannot think what.

***

The morning he finally comes to understand the meaning behind that conversation starts like any other. The sky is the palest of blues once the dawn colours fade away and a dewy mist hangs over the ground. Castiel has been up for nearly three hours already, he has fed and milked the goats and cows left in his care. The majority of their herd removed to the main farmstead after his mother’s death on The Leader’s orders.

Castiel has been released from harvest duty, too. The Leader, The Collective is told, has other uses for Castiel and it is a kindness to relieve him of the obligation of caring for so many animals. The other uses it seems, mainly consist of teaching and caring for the growing brood of children. As soon as they turn three, and hence are deemed by The Leader as old enough to leave their mothers sole care, the children become a community responsibility. Castiel is a rare exception to this rule, allowed to stay with his mother after his father’s death. Castiel muses: He has never been sure whether this is because he was the offspring of a founder member or just a rare act of compassion. Heaven knows those are few and far between, he thinks bitterly as he walks down the narrow path towards the building that houses the Learning Rooms.

Another rare exception normally stands just inside the entrance waiting for him. None of the doors in the compound have locks, not even the latrines or the bathrooms. Modesty is not needed by those who are pure of heart, or so the teachings say. Jack has no need to, but when he arrives first, which he generally does, he always lets Castiel lead him into the rooms. Today there is no sign of him. Castiel pushes aside the jangling sense of discord, like an offkey string, or the squeak of wet chalk on the blackboard that has had him on edge for days.

He works efficiently, setting up the room and by the time the house mother brings in the first group of children he has been ready for nearly half an hour.

**

Castiel hears the squeals of the children while he is hanging the brightly coloured paintings by wooden pegs from the drying line. Initially, Castiel assumes they are just letting off steam as they play in the garden. It is the only time they are really free to express their joy and excitement, the rest of their lives too regimented. He is the only one who gives them that freedom, and he often feels guilty that this is all he can offer them. He wishes he could open their eyes to what The Collective had become, but he knows if he does he will be shunned by the elders, and then who will protect and support the young ones and be there to help them if they decide they need to leave.

It is only when the door flies open and he hears one of the older children calling him, that he realises something is afoot. He sets down the basket of pegs just as some of the younger children come in from outside, running towards him. Maybe in other circumstances, he would consider what a compliment it is to be their safe haven, but the disquiet in their faces has him squatting and collecting them into his arms. He calms them as best he can, when one of the older children rushes in, leading Jack, his own face white with fear. He ushers the youngsters out with the older girl and leads Jack towards the small bathroom behind the Learning Room. He strokes his bangs back from his face. “They tried to make me go with them, Castiel. They tried to make me go back to quarantine. Why did they do that, Castiel? I haven’t told anyone the secret. Not anyone.” He repeats the phrases over and over, gripping his own arms, hugging himself as he rocks. It is then that Castiel notices the blood spreading from his hands onto the white sleeves of his loose-fitting shirt.

“Hush, now,” he murmurs, as he inspects his wrists, the wounds are nasty but relatively shallow. “You are safe with me, Jack. I promise I will look after you. I won’t let them take you. Stay here, I will be right back.”

He tells the children, as he ushers them towards the food hall for the noonday meal, that it’s a special secret game that Jack is playing. The older ones are watching him carefully, keeping secrets is something the children on this commune come to understand early. But some of the children are way too young, chances are they will be overheard talking to one another, or maybe careless of the harm it will do, they may even tell one of the house mothers. He needs to find Jack somewhere to hide, while he finds out exactly what has happened.

The time of day is to their advantage, as the call to the food hall sounds loud and clear even at this distance. With luck his own absence will not be noticed, he is allowed to eat his meals at his own home. It is one of his privileges and it is not unknown for he and Jack to skip the noonday prepping for the next day. Especially now that The Leader has started expecting Castiel to attend the afternoon Elder Talks while the children siesta before late afternoon worship. He opens the outside doors and checks beyond the small garden before he returns to Jack.

The bleeding at his wrists has stopped. The cuts, now that he can inspect them properly are not deep enough to do much damage, more like scrapes than cuts really, down his wrists and over the heels and backs of his hands, dark, blood-red bruises are blooming in the unbroken flesh around them and must be painful, but Jack is compliant as Castiel turns his hands this way and that. He cleans and bandages them. Jack, no longer speaking, his eyes blank with shock, stares straight through Castiel, unseeing and unreachable.

***

Meg shows little surprise when Castiel catches her attention. She is elbow deep in root vegetables when the pebble he has thrown plops into the vast sink in front of her.

She nods discreetly at him and moments later wipes her hands on her apron skirt and heads out of his eye-line. When she joins him outside moments later she smells vaguely of earth.

“I need your help,” Castiel whispers simply.

She nods and follows him away from the building, automatically adopting his sneaking attitude.

Only once they are a good distance away and safe from prying eyes and snooping ears, does he speak again. “How long have you got?” he asks her, mindful that they have a lot to do.

“I’m all yours Clarence,” she winks at him. “for at least the next two or three days.”

“How…?”

“I told Brother Marcus I was unclean,” she winks at him, “f’I have to live in a misogynistic hell hole, m’gonna use it to full advantage. ‘Sides I’m sick of washing turnips. Now, you gonna clue me in?”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s easier to just show you. And I wanna get out of sight as quick as possible.”

They take a looping path, through the scrubby fields behind his property rather than the direct route where they might be seen. Castiel does not have much time before he is expected at the Elder Talk and everyone will assume he is still in the Learning Room preparing for the following day.

Jack is exactly where he left him, sleeping on the day bed where Castiel cared for his mother in her final days. He had given the boy a dose of the medication left from her illness, just in case the panic returned while he was gone.

Meg takes in the high spots of colour on Jack’s cheeks and the bandages on his arms. “How much do you know about how he got those and what are you planning to do?”

“I think,” Castiel says, “that he has escaped from Quarantine. And I… I don’t know. He can’t stay here for long. I’m surprised they haven’t come looking for him already. I’m sorry Meg, I know this is a huge ask, but I have no-one else… if you don’t want to… ouch!”

He rubs the meat of his shoulder where she has just punched him. “Don’t you dare,” she says, “None of your martyr bull shit around me. Of course, I’ll help, but we can’t hide him forever, we have to get him out.”

Castiel rubs his hand over his face. He thinks of the high-security fences and the vehicle checks, that everyone assumes are to protect them from outsiders. It’s impossible.

“Castiel,” Meg says softly, taking his hands in her own, gently shaking them to get his attention. It jars, she never calls him Castiel, and he turns his gaze back from Jack to her.

“We have an out, Castiel, we have a way, but it’s not really ready, not quite yet, we were going to wait for the harvest celebration and the market trip. Use it as cover to escape to the real world, away from this shit hole.”

Used as he is, to Meg’s harsh language when they are alone, she still stuns him. He tries, unsuccessfully, to hide the hurt from his face. They have never had secrets from each other.

“We were going to come and tell you once we were sure, ask you to come with us. Inias, Uriel, and me. The Leader is so obsessed with you, we thought we should keep you in the dark until it was all in place. I’m sorry, not sharing this with you, it’s… it was horrible.”

“I can’t leave,” Castiel says automatically. Too many people rely on him. He thinks of the brood and their playful squeals and the teenagers, struggling with the need to expand their world. Only he ever gives them any freedom or release from the constant drag of scriptures and lessons and teachings.

“You damn well can,” Meg says sharply. “There’s nothing here worth staying for.”

He shakes his head, “You don’t understand Meg. I want to, but I…“ It all sounds so arrogant. “I’m the only one he listens to even a little bit, without me, he’d be unbearable. I have to protect them.”

“Stupid boy,” she says gently stroking his face. “You can’t. Not alone against him.”

Castiel stares at her. He knows she’s right, but to leave? Where will they go, they have no resources. “Maybe if you leave now, you can go to the authorities, tell them what’s going on…”

She shakes his hands again. “It’s too late, Clarence. He’s already escalating. He kidnapped Jack! He’s so self absorbed he thinks he can just go and snatch a normal kid, from the outside world and drag him back here with no repercussions. He thinks he’s invincible. He’s building up an arsenal. Inias saw boxes coming off the truck with the medical supplies last month. He’s arming himself for a war, Castiel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, horrified. “I could…”

“You could what? That’s why we couldn’t tell you. You’d try and stop it and you can’t. No matter how hard you try, you can’t save everyone. It’s time to think of yourself for once.”

She scans his face and he sees a look of calculation cross her features. “If you won’t do it for you, do it for me, and him.” She nods towards Jack. “We can get him out, together.” And he can see the triumph in her eyes. She knows she has him. “We just need to hide him for a few days. Have you got any ideas?”

He thinks hard. The compound is huge and will take days to search thoroughly. It’s just a matter of choosing the place most unlikely to be searched first. From the mantel, in the other room, they hear the gentle chime of his mother’s clock. He has to go, being missed will be a disaster.

“Go,” Meg says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll take care of him until you come back.” He pulls her in for a hug, ignoring the lingering scent of turnips.

***

The Elders make no comment when he arrives several minutes late for their talk, a fact that should really have made Castiel suspicious. Elder Raphael is discussing The Teachings on loyalty to The Collective when The Leader himself arrives late. His robes, are as dirty hemmed as ever, sandalled feet covered in the red dust of the outer fields.

Castiel focuses carefully on the discussion. It is important he shows no more and no less interest than normal. No-one has mentioned Jack, nor asked him, especially about his day, but this is not so unusual. He knows that some of the Elders resent his presence at these talks, disliking the evidence of his favoured status. He is often the only Brethren present and certainly the only one who attends with frequency.

It is as the time for late afternoon worship approaches that Castiel becomes aware that things are not as they should be.

“Praise to The Leader,” Elder Raphael begins the closing address, “Our link to the Lord and Guide in faith…”

Castiel notices as he bows his head in an attitude of prayer, that Brother Alastair has joined them. He keeps his head down, to move during the address is to disrespect the Leader and the Elders, but he risks a glance sideways. Brother Alastair is rarely seen out in the commune, preferring to spend his time in his own domain within the Quarantine wing.

As the meeting closes, Castiel follows the Elders as they begin to leave the room, only to feel a hand grip his arm, just above his elbow. The sneer on Brother Alastair’s face as their eyes meet is far from pleasant.


	7. Rather Be

Castiel jolts awake as Dean coasts baby to a halt. Sand sparkles grey amongst dark tufts of seagrass in the beam of the headlights. They have been driving for hours and Castiel fell asleep somewhere south of Atlanta. He turns to Dean, eyes wide with uncertainty, in the reflected gloom. Through the window beyond him he can see the wooden fairings of a building.

“Where are we?” he says carefully. This is clearly not a motel. Dean has been acting suspiciously for the last few days. Their rambling road trip has seemed to Castiel to have lost it’s aimless drift and become more focused, despite Dean’s denials.

Dean turns towards him and takes Castiel’s hand, slotting their fingers together and brushing a thumb over his knuckles. He moistens his lips and with his other hand turns off the ignition. The comforting rumble of the V8 drops away, replaced by the gentle hum of the wind as it rolls over the Impala, causing her radio aerial to sing.

“Dean,” Castiel repeats his question a little more sharply, “where are we?”

“It can just be for a few days…” Dean begins, his tone placatory, “...but if you like it, we can stay longer.” They have been travelling together for nearly five months, now, moving from town to town. Castiel has tried many times to insist that Dean should let him pick up some work to earn some cash to put towards their food and lodgings, but they have never stayed anywhere long enough for him to really contribute much. He doesn’t like it, but he does like Dean, so he has pushed his own disquiet down. He opens his mouth to protest, but Dean beats him to it.

“I know you don’t like the feeling that I am paying for everything, but this place isn’t gonna cost me anything, Cas. My, er, friend is letting us have it in return for us doing it up. If we decide to stay, that is. We can fix it together, as equal partners. If we do, it’s ours for as long as we want. He says it’s weather-proof, but that’s about it. Basic utilities and a septic tank.”

***

Dean is a bundle of nerves as he shuts off the engine. He wants more than anything to keep Cas happy. They can’t keep travelling around forever. His savings are beginning to dwindle. The beach house is a perfect solution. All he has to do is convince Castiel. He has been trying to raise the subject for days, since the opportunity landed itself in his lap, but the timing has never seemed right, so he just worked his way towards this North Carolina beach. In the hope that Castiel will stay.

He knows he’s babbling as he explains, words tumbling over one another. He’s tired and his eyes are strained from hours of driving as he strokes his thumb soothingly over Castiel’s knuckles, willing him to accept what he’s offering. Even in the near-dark he can see the arch of Castiel’s brow. “...basic utilities and a septic tank.” He finishes. Real smooth, Winchester, finish with the romance of the sanitary arrangements.

Castiel merely stares at him in the dull reflected light inside the car.

“There’s even a little town a couple of miles away, when you get bored of my company you can maybe get one of those jobs you’re so desperate for,” he knows it’s a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

“It’s late,” Castiel says finally, with a yawn. “I take it this place has a bed, or at least somewhere we can sleep.”

***

The distant roar of the ocean fades in and out as the wind snatches around them. It tugs at their clothes and carries the scent of salt and seaweed, shifting loose sand around their feet. Dean reaches behind a small pile of rocks, using his cell as a flashlight, the silver glint of a key hanging from his fingers when he straightens back up. When the door swings open, a fine scattering of dusty sand highlights the grooves in the wooden floor stretching away from them. Castiel fumbles along the wall, but when he flicks the switch his fingers find in the dark, it clicks back and forth uselessly.

“Isolation switch is probably off,” Dean offers, “I can look for it…”

But, Castiel shakes his head, his voice monotone. “In the morning. Let’s just find the bed.”

They do the bare minimum of exploring in the semi dark, the cabin is simple, one large open plan room front to back holds the kitchen, a rickety looking table and chairs and the main living area, which houses a comfortable looking couch and two easy chairs. They are clustered around a large low table, which Dean finds when he cracks into it with his shin. Two doors in the side wall reveal a bathroom to the rear where Baby is parked and a bedroom to the beachside. The smaller windows are shuttered on the outside. Heavy ceiling to floor curtains cover most of the remaining beachside wall. They shift gently in a draft and look so frayed and fragile that neither of them thinks it worth the risk that touching them won’t result in a pile of dusty rags..

Dean dumps his duffle and Cas’ backpack onto the aggressive coffee table, while Castiel disappears into the bedroom with the cell Dean gave him once their liaison extended into something more tangible. He is quietly closing the bedroom door and making for the couch, when Dean returns from Baby for a second time. His eyebrow, which seems to have become his main means of communication arches, as Dean sets the two paper bags of groceries onto the nearest counter.

“The bed OK?” Dean asks, covering the flush of guilt he feels at sneaking off to buy supplies. Another missed opportunity to talk to Cas about what he was planning. He fishes around in one of the bags, seizing on a pack of candles. He might only have been a boy scout for about two months, before his father fucked it up for him by punching the leader when he collected him half drunk and pissed from having to care for Sam himself for a change, but he is nothing if not prepared.

Castiel shakes his head. “I think we would be better off on the floor. Something has made its home in the mattress. And from the smell,” he adds grimly, “possibly it’s final resting place.”

Dean lights the first of the candles and the flickering light warms the shadows in the room. He drips melting wax into each of the small holders he bought and sets the candles in one by one. Focusing on a task to avoid facing Castiel. This whole thing is a disaster, why did he think this was such a good idea? They could be lying in clean sheets in a comfortable motel somewhere, instead. Dean Winchester, fuck up extraordinaire brings them here. Everything he touches is a disaster...

A groaning, squeak behind him pulls him out of his self destruction and he turns to see Castiel opening the couch into a double bed. They work together checking the slats and Dean returns to Baby to retrieve his old sleeping bag and some blankets from the trunk, to make it comfortable for the night.

Cas turns on the taps, the pipes clank initially but the water that eventually dribbles from the tap is at least clear and doesn’t smell of anything terrible. They decide not to take any chances, brushing their teeth side by side, shoulders brushing, over the kitchen sink using a bottle of water from the grocery bag.

The sofa bed smells a little musty, but it is surprisingly comfortable once they settle themselves down to sleep. It creaks a little ominously when Castiel leans over to blow out the candle set in the middle of the coffee table. The candles left on the kitchen drainer to burn down lend the room a faint cosy glow. They have barely spoken, and Dean finds it impossible to settle down to sleep. The anxious knot in his stomach refusing to relent, he lies on his side watching the rise and fall of Castiel’s chest.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, without opening his eyes. “You must be exhausted.”

He tries. He really does. He presses his head into the blanket covering the seat cushions to act as a pillow. He closes his eyes. He even focuses on his breathing in an effort to relax, but it is not long before he sneaks another look at Castiel’s profile next to him. Why didn’t he just tell Cas about this place? Ask his opinion? Cas has had to deal with controlling assholes telling him what to do and making his decisions for him all his life. He had to fight for his freedom, from those bastards at the commune, and then been stalked by his prick of an ex. A man who used every manipulative and emotionally abusive trick in the book to keep Castiel. He’s been in jail for fuck’s sake, and now, Dean has been a total jerk.

“I can feel you watching me,” Cas says with a sigh and turns onto his side piercing Dean with his soft blue gaze. “And I can practically hear you thinking. Go to sleep. We can sort it all out in the morning.”

But Dean can’t leave it. He would rather hear it now, rather have Cas tell him just what he thinks of his stupid, thoughtless, controlling behaviour. “I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked you before I dragged you out here. I shouldn’t have made decisions without talking to you first, I’m no better than…”

A pair of warm firm lips press him into silence and it takes him a moment to get with the program and return the kiss. “Dean,” Castiel says quiet and firm as they pull apart. “Yes, it would have been better to just talk to me first, but as I am rapidly learning, expressing your feelings is not your strongest suit. I actually meant that we will sort out this place in the morning, not… the emotional stuff. I’m not angry, Dean. I know you were just trying to help. You have done nothing but try to help me since you first set eyes on me. And this… creaky old couch, is considerably better than most places I’ve slept in the twelve or so months before I met you, so relax. Whatever you think, no matter what else happens, there is no place I’d rather be,” he pecks another quick kiss to his lips, “than wherever you are.” He snuggles closer and they lie face to face, too close to properly focus on each others features. “Now, for fucks sake, go to sleep.”

They close their eyes and for a little while, the only sound is their breathing and the occasional shift of the wind outside as it rattles the shutters or blows sand against the walls.

“Cas?”

“Hm.”

“Fuckin’ love it when you swear.”

They kiss gently and Dean rolls onto his back, pulling Cas into his arms. “I am sorry, though, Cas. Truly I am.” I’ll do better, he thinks

“Go the fuck to sleep, Dean,” Cas orders as he snuggles closer.


	8. Fight Song

New York

The club is busy without being crowded. Castiel recognises a number of familiar faces amongst the press of bodies. He sits at the end of the bar nursing a long rum and coke. Every time he looks up he sees Alfie watching him thoughtfully as he polishes glasses or replenishes his slices on the back counter, so he focuses on the swirl of his drink and the play of light from the neon-lit bar in the caramel fringes of his glass.

This corner is far enough away from the dance floor to hold a conversation at moderate volume but close enough to feel the beat through the metal cross spurs on his stool. Bal is dancing with a flirtatious, smartly dressed man with a well-manicured five o’clock shadow and the kind of dark good looks that he often goes for. Appearing at Castiel’s side every four or five tracks to grab his drink or a few cocktail nibbles.

The show was as exceptional as the critics had promised and Castiel enjoyed it, but he has been wanting his bed for at least the last two hours. It is, however, Bal’s birthday, and there is no way that Castiel will let Balthazar down, no matter how tired he feels.

He feels the bump against his stool and forces his mouth into a smile, only for it to freeze in place. It is not Bal seeking yet another ridiculous cocktail, it is Bart.

“CJ,” he says, just loud enough to be heard. “I hoped you’d not given up on the club. It’s good to see you.” His hand is heavy on Castiel’s knee as he pulls up the stool next to him.

“Bart,” Castiel acknowledges, gently displacing the man’s hand from his leg.

“Don’t be like that, CJ.,” Bart croons. “I’ve missed you, baby. And I know you’ve missed me, too.”

“I really haven’t,” Castiel says firmly. He glances up and catches Alfie’s eye. The barman looks at him questioningly, but Castiel gives the subtlest of head shakes. There isn’t much Bart can do in such a public space, other than causing a scene. And if Castiel is careful he can avoid even that.

Bart gives a little pout. He leans closer and his breath is sour with too much gin. “Let me buy you a drink, baby, for old time’s sake.”

“I already have a drink,” Castiel replies, calmly. “And please don’t call me baby.”

“You’ll always be my baby, CJ,” Bart leans in and Castiel has to grip the bar rail to stop himself overbalancing as he leans away. “Admit it, you’re here because you hoped to run into me. Why else would you come?”

“It’s Bal’s birthday,” Castiel says. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Ah, Balthazar, where is the old queen? Made me feel sick, always hanging around tryna get his mouth on your cock.” His lips curled into a snarl, and Castiel flinches as Bart’s hand slides back onto his leg, thumb rubbing suggestively up the inside of his thigh. “You have such a pretty cock, baby, don’t you wanna go somewhere and play?” he whines.

Castiel grips Bart’s wrist and twists it away from his leg. “I think you should go and sober up, Bart. I’m not going anywhere with you, now or ever. Now please, just leave me alone.”

He throws one arm over Castiel’s shoulder and presses his mouth close to his ear. The stage whisper, making his eardrum vibrate uncomfortably. “Aw, baby. I’ll even let you top. Carte blanche to do what you want with me. Come on, CJ, you know you want to.”

“No Bart, I really don’t,” Castiel says, shrugging his arm away and placing a hand in the centre of his chest to push him away. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

Bart’s face contorts into something even angrier. “You don’t gotta be such a lil bitch about it, CJ.”

Castiel is just shoving Bart away when he hears Bal’s voice over the sounds of the club. “Is everything all right, Cassie?”

“Oh and here he comes, your knight in shining armour. What ya gonna do Ballie? Hit me with your zimmer frame. You know, you really should try hanging out with someone your own age. I hear the nursing home on 7th has a social on Wednesdays.”

“That’s enough, Bart,” Castiel snaps. “You’re drunk. I don’t want you near me tonight or any night. Now please just go home and sleep it off.”

“You heard him, Bart, now…” The swing of his arm is drink-lazy and uncoordinated, but Bal is distracted by his date following him from the dance floor and the fist makes firm enough contact with the meat of his neck to force him back a few steps.

Castiel is up from his stool and grabbing at Bart’s other arm in seconds, determined to drag him off when he is shoved backwards, falling heavily over the stools towards the bar and that is the last thing he clearly remembers, until his aching brains forces his bleary eyes to focus and the patchy neon coloured shapes form into the worried faces of his best friend, the barman and his best-friends latest prospective conquest.

Somewhere over the faint boom of the music, he can hear Bart’s half-shouted protests and he startles. “S’OK, Seej,” Alfie tells him. “Bartholomew is on his way to a meet and greet with the sidewalk and a life-time ban.”

Balthazar gives the kid an exasperated look, but Castiel joins the man’s date in a chuckle, despite his pounding head. “I think, Bal,” the unnamed man says with the strangled vowels of a London cockney, “it would be a good idea to get him somewhere quieter and let me check out that bump.”


	9. Everybody Plays the Fool

Dean wanders back into the bedroom carrying two mugs, his own coffee and a sweet smelling tea he has carefully laced with the honey they bought in the farmer’s market. He sets them down carefully on the bedside table and settles himself on the bed they built together. A shaft of sunlight streaming into the room via the wooden slats of the bathroom shutters stripes the parquet floor through the sweeping arch that marks the separation of the en-suite from the bedroom. Castiel is leaning against the sink, shaving, gilt, where the light strikes him. Every few swipes he drops the razor into the water in the sink and the melodic swoosh of the water is rhythmically marked with the quick ringing rap of the razor against the ceramic as he clears the blades, before resuming the smooth rasping strokes of the cutting edge against the stubble on his face.

It is so mundane, so boringly domestic and yet it takes Dean’s breath away. It’s happening more and more, these perfect little moments. He is stunned by them. Castiel is stunning, stuns him. Leaves him breathless and aching in the sweetest possible way. Dean just wants to preserve this oasis, to live with Cas in this perfect bubble, protect him from the world that has hurt him and make sure that nothing even remotely bad ever touches him again.

The sensation is so overwhelming, he is almost grateful for the jangling tones of his cell phone breaking the spell. Almost. Until he reads the caller ID. He scowls. And steps out through the wide glass doors onto the stoop, letting the door rattle shut behind him.

“Dean?” He can hear the surprise in her voice that he has answered.

“What do you want Lisa?” He tries, and fails, to keep his tone neutral. He sounds petulant.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks,” she admonishes him. “I know you’re angry with me, but you can’t just act as though this isn’t happening.” She takes a breath, perhaps expecting him to say something, when he doesn’t she sighs and carries on, “You have some post that’s arrived here. The letting agency have been trying to get hold of you, they want the house cleaned out now that our lease is over or they’re gonna charge us another month.”

“Seriously Lis? There is no us, remember that. You told me that. There is no us.”

“We’re co-signatories, Dean. I have tried to explain the situation to them, but they won’t budge. We’ve already racked up an extra two month of charges...I’ve forfeited my share of the deposit to cover some of the costs, but I don’t have enough to pay it all off. You know, I feel bad enough about all this already. I know this isn’t fair on you…”

“Fair on me?! Fair on me?! Jesus, Lisa. You tell me it’s over, tell me you think it’s better for Ben if we make a clean break of it. Tell me you’re going to move into a motel for a few weeks while you sort out somewhere to live. And I couldn’t let you do that, could I…couldn’t bear the thought of Ben, or you, having to do that. So Dean Winchester, prize idiot, moves out, of course he does, only you weren’t gonna stay in a motel were you Lis?”

“I’m sorry,” her voice breaks around an aborted sob. Great, now he’s made her cry. Angry as he is at the moment, he isn’t an asshole. That’s why he left. He can’t keep bumping into her and causing them both fresh pain if he’s not in the same town. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just thought it would be easier… to give you time to get used to the idea first…”

“Give me time, Lis? When were you gonna tell me, after you moved in with him, or were you gonna wait and just send me a christening invite that had _his_ name as the father instead of mine?” He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. “Look, Lis. It’s not a good idea for you and I to talk. Take what you want and sell the rest to cover my share. If there’s any cash left, put it into Ben’s college fund or something. Just… don’t call me again, yeah. If you need to contact me, send a text or something. I can’t talk to you… not without… ”

“I’m so sorry, Dean, but I didn’t want to just leave it and wreck your credit rating.” Somewhere in the background he can hear the baby crying, “I’ll pay as much of it as I can Dean, I promise. Are you sure you want me to sell your stuff? I could put it into storage for you, or keep it here in the garage, maybe. Gordy won’t mind, he...”

Part of Dean’s brain short circuits, is she really about to tell him what a stand-up guy his former best friend is? “Jesus, Lisa,” he snaps, “I already told you: Just sell it all. Except for Ben, I took everything and anything I really care about with me when I left town.”

He hears the gasp, and knows that must have hurt and all he can think is ‘Good’. He hears the familiar creak of the loose floorboard in Gordy’s family room, as someone paces up and down, the baby gurgling rather than crying. The floorboard he had promised to fix for his best friend but never quite got round to in the whirlwind weeks of finding out Lisa was expecting, the last few weeks before Dean’s whole world imploded.

Lisa draws in a deep breath. “How are you, Dean? I was worried when you didn’t answer the messages I sent. Please, can you just answer them sometimes. I just need to know you’re OK, that you aren’t…”

He hangs up on her as she pauses. He is not having this conversation, not now, not ever. His cell vibrates to indicate an incoming call and he aborts it. Seconds later it beeps a text alert.

He hates what Lisa has done, but he can he really blame her for finding someone who truly loves her? They were friends for years before they got together. And despite their friends and and his father telling them they were perfect for one another, if he’s 100% honest, he didn’t need her to tell him that they were not. He realises what she tried to tell him on that hellish night was the absolute truth. He was never really committed to their life together, not ‘emotionally invested’ in their relationship.

He turns the phone in his hand and glances at the screen.

I AM srry Txt me wen U can I just need 2 no UR OK.

The temptation to throw it against the wall is far too strong and he hates it. Hates that this whole situation makes him feel just like his goddamn dad. He turns the cell off. He needs a drink. He is about to go, reaching into his pocket, when he remembers the Impala keys are hanging on the key hooks in the kitchen area. He’s never, not since John gave him the car when he graduated school, put those keys anywhere other than in his pocket.

And that is when the realisation hits him. This cabin, feels safe, it feels like home. He did - still does, which is why the betrayal still hurts so much - love Lis, but he was never in love with her. And he didn’t know until now, because until now he didn’t understand what it is to be ‘in’ love. It’s not the cabin that feels safe, it’s not the cabin that feels like home. The realisation hits him like a shockwave. This is it for him, _Cas_ is it for him.

When he pushes the door open, Cas turns toward him, drying his hands and striding purposefully across the space between them. He doesn’t speak, just collects Dean into his arms and holds him close, but not before Dean has caught the look on his face.

“How much did you hear?” he asks into his solid shoulder, clenching and unclenching his hands against Cas’ back.

“Enough,” he admits quietly. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

Dean isn’t sure whether he is apologising for overhearing or just expressing his sympathy. It really doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, well, everyone is sorry,” he spits bitterly, pushing back and wiping a hand over his face.

Cas hands are gentle, slightly hesitant, as they touch his face and even so it takes a gargantuan effort for Dean not to flinch away. The urge to hide his vulnerability beaten into him so deeply that he has to fight it, even when there’s only Cas here to see. Fingers slide behind his ears and warm palms brush his cheeks, as Cas frames his face, waiting patiently. It could be seconds, it could be an eternity, but eventually when he opens his eyes Cas will be there waiting for him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas asks softly.

Hell, no. Dean thinks. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head as much as he can in the loose frame of Cas’ fingers. “Make me forget, Cas.”

“As you wish.” The rough edge of Castiel’s thumb slides down his cheek and pulls at his bottom lip. He presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead, before withdrawing. His hands slide over the outline of Dean’s neck and down his arms, the fingers of one hand snagging Dean’s fingers he leads him to the bedroom.

***

“Make me forget, Cas.”

Dean is beautiful, in his heartbreak. He feels a flash of guilt at the thought. He slides his thumb around to the plush of his full bottom lip. If he can bring him some small comfort and ease his pain, even for a short while, he will. “As you wish.”

Dean follows easily as he tugs his arm and leads him to the bedroom. They have slipped into a pattern in this space that is all their own.

They have spent their days sharing books, cooking for each other and eating from one another’s forks, Dean educates him with films and TV, on the warmer days they swim in the ocean and chase the chill from each other with shared blankets and mugs of hot chocolate. They lie tangled together at night, sated and comfortable. They talk for hours and Dean has been there every time when Castiel wakes screaming from blood and fears. Holding him and kissing away his tears.

In this limbic space, they have learnt each others bodies and their own desires, experimented and played with power exchange. Castiel is living day to day, he knows at some point the world will come for them. If his life has taught him anything, it is that nothing is permanent. The good or the bad. One day the other shoe _will_ drop.

But right now, Dean is hurting. Dean wants to get out of his own head and Castiel can press him into the soft memory foam of their bed and do that for him.


	10. American Idiot

New York

When Castiel finally wakes up, his head, still tender, is no longer ringing like a church bell falling down the tower stairs. He opens his eyes and stares at the familiar lines of faint cracks and chips, grateful that Bal had the foresight to pull a medic on the very night he got himself knocked out. It’s far more pleasant to wake up in his own bed than an ER room. Cheaper, too. Mick Davies, a fresh-off-the-boat import from England, had proved himself a god-send in that respect.

Castiel lies still for a moment, before deciding the pressure on his bladder is greater than the comfort of his bed. He is wobbly as a new-born colt and drops the lid when he’s finished, sinking gratefully onto the toilet seat in his little en-suite WC. The seat is cold against his naked butt, but he bears it as he drinks a tumblr of water straight from the faucet. He fills it again and drinks a second before he trusts himself to stand and wash his hands. The liquid is cool and soothing on his dry throat, but what he really wants is coffee. He pops two advil, wincing as he catches sight of the faint bleed of a bruise on his forehead. He parts his hair and touches it gingerly, but there doesn’t even seem to be a scab, just a tender patch and a good sized bump.

The morning sunlight and the distant noises of the city are doing their best to invade his quiet bedroom as he walks back through and he pushes the sash open to give them easy access. The air outside is as fresh as it gets in the city, and not for the first time he misses the quiet clean smell of the open countryside. It’s one of the many things he does miss despite his best efforts to forget his previous life. He sighs and focuses on his breathing as he grips the sill. Dr. Linda’s imagined voice droning in his ear. In with love, out with sorrow.

Enough, he thinks. Coffee. Maybe a few fresh pastries, if Bal is in a mood to spoil him this morning. Which he suspects he will be. He wanders into the kitchen, snagging his mug from the drainer. A present from Bal, resplendent with a cartoon mummy under the caption ‘Mummies drink de-coffinated’. The coffee is fresh and hot and he thanks all the ancient gods that Bal has set it on a timer. He is just raising the mug, anticipating his first sip when he hears someone whistle through their teeth behind him.

“Now that’s a view I could get used to.”

He hisses as the hot liquid he did lose when he nearly dropped his mug scalds his bare chest. Turning quickly, and instantaneously gripping the counter behind him with his free hand when the motion makes him dizzy.

Mick Davies steps forward from his position behind the island, where he was hidden by the jumble of Bal’s precious assorted pots and pans, placing a steadying hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He has the good grace to look a little apologetic behind the cheeky grin as he yanks over a breakfast stool with his foot and pushes Castiel down onto it.

“How’s the head this morning?” he asks, seeking Castiel’s permission to touch with a simple gesture. “Have you been dizzy? Experience any nausea?”

Castiel shrugs. “I was doing fine until some asshole made me jump out of my skin.”

“First thing to learn about my Cassie, Mick, my darling, never disturb his beauty sleep and if you do, never get between him and his first coffee.” Balthazar rests easily against the door jam, his robe draped softly open over a pair of silk boxers, his own mug gripped lazily in one hand. Castiel can see the blush of a bruise at his wrist.

“Good to know my concussion didn’t impede your love life,” he retorts childishly and sticks his tongue out for good measure.

“Now seriously, my love, play nicely,” Bal says with an answering smirk, “and let Mick check you over, or I will haul that beautiful ass to Mount Sinai. And if you’re really repugnant I won’t pause to grab you any clothes.”

With a deep sigh, Castiel submits to Mick’s care. His fingers are gentle as they explore his scalp. After a few minutes of tracking fingers and answering questions, he is deemed well enough to go back to his room and grab a pair of shorts. He’s not embarrassed by his nudity, but he’s feeling a little vulnerable today and despite being Bal’s conquest, he’s not entirely sure that Mick isn’t trying to flirt with him. Threesomes with his best friend are not something that hold any interest for Castiel. Bal is prolific and has quite a reputation in their circle and he knows a lot of their friends and acquaintances assume that they have consummated their unorthodox relationship at some point. Their friends are wrong.

He thinks, briefly, about hiding out in his room for the rest of the day, but hunger and the drifting odour of oven-fresh pastries quickly change his mind. He hesitates and puts on an oversized t-shirt and a pair of joggers.

The two men are talking quietly when he returns and he catches a snatch of their conversation before they notice him. They are clearly discussing the night before, ‘medical evidence of assault’ and ‘press charges if he wants to’. Bal sees him first, clearly amused by his sudden modesty as his eyes flicker over his choice of clothing. “Cassie,” he says, over brightly, pushing around a plate overflowing with pastries, “I made your favourites.”

***

Mick becomes a bit of a feature for his six-month stay in New York, and whilst Castiel doesn’t actively dislike him, he is confused by his continual flirting and teasing. Bal, however, is delighted by him and laughs heartily at Castiel’s continued confusion at their shared ‘Britishisms’. He is pleased to see his friend so happy, but he finds himself spending a lot more time at his work and when at home in his own room. So as Mick’s departure back to London looms, Castiel, terrible as it makes him feel, is really looking forward to getting his friend back to himself for a while. And he knows Bal, his heart is not going to be broken, he’s never known him to fall in love with anyone.

So he is surprised by just how hard Bal does take it. And utterly shocked to find within three weeks of Mick’s departure that Bal is planning to visit him in London.

“When are you thinking of going?” Cas asks, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I’m kind of hoping you will help me decide,” Bal sets the Mummy mug full of rich coffee in front of Cas on the breakfast island. His tone is far too casual, “Thought maybe we could make a trip of it, I know you’d get a kick out of actually going to the British Museum…”

“You want me to come with you?”

“You’re my best friend, Cassie. I can’t actually imagine going without you. And you’ve been so buried in your work lately, you could do with a holiday.”

“Bal, I can’t go to Europe. I don’t have a passport. We might have been able to make up an ID for the banks and to get me a driver's permit, but a passport? I don’t have a valid birth certificate, not even in my… my birth name.”

“If you say you wanna go, Cassie, we’ll find a way. I promise.”

Europe. He can imagine it, so easily. He has spoken to colleagues in London frequently, even met a few of them in person, they would all be super excited to have him visit. His exhibit is a hit, he’s fairly certain that it can be used as the basis for combining the trip with work. A return collaboration. A couple of weeks in London working, while Bal gets his fill of Mick and then they could tour a little. The UK is a collection of nations steeped in history. Maybe, he could visit Skara Brae, walk in the footsteps of stone age man, visit his home, now that would be spectacular…and once he has his passport, maybe he can actually go to Egypt. He knows Dr. Salah would be delighted, she’s already hinted a few times that she would love him to give one of the Monday night lectures in Zamalek...

Somewhere, back in the real world, he becomes aware that Bal is softly laughing at him. “And he’s back in the room,” he chuckles.

Cas does the only thing a mature adult can do when he’s caught out daydreaming like an excited child who’s just discovered ice cream comes in more than three flavours, he sticks his tongue out. Then he sobers.

“There’s no way, Bal. You are right I would love it, but there’s just… it’s just not possible for me. I’m lucky to have what I have, without pushing my luck for more.”


	11. Good Things

Initially, they were a curiosity in the small coastal town, with its genteel properties and equally genteel residents. They were both cautious, North Carolina is certainly no rainbow state, but equally there is a small pride flag in the corner of the coffee shop/diner window on Main Street and none of the townsfolk who are significantly well acquainted with them to know they are sharing the beach house has made them feel uncomfortable, and before long they are relaxing into the community.

They visit the local store to buy groceries once a week and once she finds out that they are doing up the old beach house, Pamela Barnes, who owns the local bar introduces them to Benny Lafitte. He works a boat out of the port some fifty miles down the coast all Summer, but in the winter he makes up his money working construction and running repairs on local holiday lets. He and Dean are firm friends within a few weeks, although it takes longer for he and Castiel to find their common ground.

Castiel is busy hand planing and then sanding a piece of fine cedar wood to form the top shelf on the footboard of their new bed on the beach in front of the stoop, when he hears a pick up draw up out the back. It’s probably one of the last hot days of the season, he suspects and he wants to take advantage of working outside for as long as he can. The wind whips away the fine dust along with the soft sand. He shoves his safety goggle up into his hair and pulls the mask down, letting it hang around his neck, and sit on skin bronzed from exposure to the Summer. Dean left for town a couple of hours ago and he was expecting the purr of the Impala, not the chug of a pick up. 

He raises his mask and dusts the worst of the crap of his hands onto shorts that are covered in paint, varnish, plaster and dust when the bulky figure of Lafitte appears, heavy booted feet sinking into the soft sand at the beach edge.

“Dean’s not here,” Castiel says by way of greeting. It sounds a little rude and he swallows and opens his mouth to try again.

“I know that,” Benny sounds amused, “I brought you fresh lumber. No point paying delivery when he can just load up my truck. Your boy sent me on ahead with the first load. Said he messaged you.” 

Castiel draws the salty tang of sea air deep into his chest. He wipes the sweat and dirt from his hands and retrieves his phone from the top step on the stoop.

There’s a little string of messages. He’s been far too busy at his wood working to check his phone. Which is probably just as well when he reads them.

bumped into Benny at store fresh delivery at yard gonna look

He knows he has no reason to be jealous of the friendship Dean has with the burly cajun sailor. It’s in Dean’s nature to befriend people, and he’s flirtatious with all his friends. But knowing and feeling are very different things and he would have been unable to help the green eyed monster if he’d known Dean was spending the afternoon with Benny..

fresh spruce. oak and a sweet load of cherrywood

U want the cherry? Benny says perfect 4 stoop seat

U got UR head buried in sawdust again?

gonna buy it Benny gonna drop it back for us save on delivery

right all loaded Benny on his way fetching food. 

grill weather light the coals . 

He rolls his eyes at the phone, but he can’t help the indulgent grin. He suspects an impending hurricane would be ideal grilling weather in Dean’s mind, but he’s not going to deny its a good idea today. He checks the time stamp, with Benny’s help he can have his work cleared away and the coals settling back to red hot embers perfect for grilling in the hour it will take Dean to double back to the store and return with what will undoubtedly be an overwhelming amount of red meat.

Benny’s soft drawl breaks into his thoughts. “Dean said you were good, but he was underselling your skills.” Castiel turns back to the beach and glances up. Benny is smoothing his hand along the curve of the beam. “This is beautiful work, Castiel. You have a real good eye for the grain.”

Castiel doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment. Dean would make some lame joke about having plenty of practice with wood to deflect it, but even after all this time, Castiel has to fight the conditioning that makes pride, even justified pride, a sin. Instead of replying, he simply nods. “Want a beer,” he asks.

Benny gives him a wide full grin. “Thought you’d never ask, brother.”

***

Dean is so deep in thought, he realises that he has completely missed what Mrs Baker has just asked him. 

“Lord, should I add a map and a compass to all this grub, boy?” She laughs deep at his discomfort, even as he’s starting to mumble an apology. “If I had a sweet thing like you got waiting for me, and I’d be inclined to get lost in my thoughts, too.” She pats his hand. “That’ll be $89.73. You wanna add it to the tab, or pay today?” 

He flicks open his bill fold, and realises he is short. He used most of his cash to pay for the lumber, but he couldn’t resist it. Benny had told him about the consignment of cherry wood that had just been delivered and he hadn’t taken much convincing to go and check it out. He’s hoping that they won’t quite have finished unloading it when he gets back home, he wants to see the look on Cas’ face. The one he gets when he loses himself in something beautiful. 

He gives her his last fifty bucks and she writes the balance up in her little book and Dean thinks once again on how lucky they have been to land in this place, where they can barter their skills and stretch their meagre budget.

He loads the groceries into Baby’s trunk alongside the bucket of nails and wood glue he actually came out for. It took considerable willpower to climb into Baby and head into town this afternoon. There is something irresistible about Castiel when he is absorbed in his carpentry. Dean covers it with all sorts of cheap comments about being good with his hands and offering alternative ‘wood’ for him to work on when Cas looks up and catches him staring. But in truth, there is nothing he loves more than just watching Castiel working. Focussed and calm. His strength and grace of movement never more obvious than when he is completely at peace with himself, skilled hands making magic out of timber.

He climbs behind the wheel and fires off a text to Cas to let him know he’s heading home. Finally, he has a reply to all his earlier messages.

Grill warming. There better be burgers 

As if, Dean thinks, I’d dare forget the burgers. He presses his screen dark and puts his phone in his pocket. 

They spent the first month or two shoring up the structure of the beach house. Repairing where they could and replacing where they couldn’t. They worked well together right from the off, but after a few weeks of making good, they were so well synchronised they began to get more ambitious. Changing the internal layout of the beach house to take best advantage of the views, and making their own furniture either from scratch or by altering and renovating what already exists. Dean knows he is a capable carpenter, but Castiel is something else. Even that goddamn vicious coffee table that barked his shins on their first night has become a thing of beauty under Castiel’s ministrations. 

In truth, they could have managed without his impromptu shopping trip today, but the weather will run out on them soon enough, and if he hadn’t removed himself, Castiel would have had his hands on their headboard for entirely different reasons. He chuckles to himself at the dirty turn of his thoughts, as he turns off main street onto the coastal road. There’s a loud blare of horns behind him as dark sedan car jumps the lights behind him, and other drivers make their displeasure known. It has to be a visitor, he thinks idly, anyone who stays here for more than a few weeks can’t help but be seduced into the same laconic attitude to time.

By the time, he makes the last turn onto the dusty track that runs parallel to the sea his stomach is beginning to grumble. It’s no good trying to rush along it, although it has improved because of their frequent use, the compacted sand has a tendency to shift causing the ruts and potholes to migrate and change on a regular basis. He’s surprised when he realises the dark sedan is still behind him, catching a glimpse of dark haired profile in his rear view as it carries on past their turn. It’s not a road for pleasure drives, the views are too restricted down behind the dunes and marshy scrub land that lies between the beach and civilisation. It doesn’t even really get busy in season, there are only a handful of places to cut through to the shore, and fewer still that have anything but a heap of sand and the relentless ocean. 


	12. Like A Fool

The Collective

Castiel feigns innocent concern when The Leader guides him to his office, the benevolent smile that Castiel is so familiar with fixed in place. He has to go willingly, he even shows mild curiosity at the presence of Brother Alastair, to do otherwise would appear suspicious. His presence alone is more than enough to make most of the Brethren jittery.

So, after glancing cautiously at the Brother a few times as they walk along the corridor, Castiel stands respectful and silent, keeping himself relaxed once they are inside, even as Brother Alastair closes the door and stands, square set in front of it with his hands clasped behind him.

The Leader has his back to them both, setting a jug of lemonade down on the corner of his desk and retrieving tumblers from the cupboard in the corner. When he finally turns back his face is set in an expression of fatherly concern.

“I am disappointed, Castiel,” he begins.

The blush in Castiel’s cheeks is automatic, years of conditioning making him squirm under the chastising tone, which he supposes is a good thing, he is not actor enough to fake the response.

“Do you have something you wish to say to me?”

The oldest trick in the book, Castiel thinks, give a man enough rope to hang himself, but he nods anyway and swallows awkwardly before speaking. “I arrived late for the Elder Talk, sir. It was disrespectful of me to not be punctual,” Castiel keeps his head lowered, watching Brother Alastair in his peripheral vision, while appearing chastened. He hears The Leader inhale, but blurts out before the man can speak, “But Father, I was so worried, Brother Jack did not come today to The Learning Rooms and… I know I should have come straight to you, but I sought to find him myself first. I know it was wrong of me to be deceitful, but I thought I could find him and guide him back to the true path without…” he pauses, drawing in a shuddering breath. “It was very wrong of me, Father. To assume that I could behave as only an Elder can. I do not have the wisdom to guide others. I was prideful and…”

He startles as the Leader drops a hand on his shoulder. “Castiel, sit, my boy. Your honesty and modesty do you credit. I too am concerned for Brother Jack. He has not been seen since last Even Supper and his bunk has not been used.”

Castiel has known for a long time that The Leader is capable of dishonesty, but he is so convincing, for a moment he wonders whether Brother Alastair has overstepped his bounds and is operating without his knowledge. It is all too easy under his reassuring grip, with his wide charming smile and blue eyes, deceptively gentle, holding Castiel’s gaze, to believe him. But the moment passes quickly. His own father had underlined the words in his diary and Castiel has observed it since. The Leader is not to be trusted.

“The boy must be within the compound,” Brother Alastair’s lisping voice breaks the silence, _“if,” _the word drips with doubt, “Brother Castiel has not seen the boy today, we need to begin searching the outbuildings and any place he may…”

The Leader cuts him off, the glare he shoots him is intense and angry and even Brother Alastair blanches under it’s force, “Indeed, we must check everywhere. Whatever accident has befallen Brother Jack, it is obviously serious enough that he has been unable to call for help. But that was not your first thought, Castiel. Do you have some reason to believe that he may have erred?”

Hell. He rounds his eyes to maximum innocence. “I thought maybe he had overslept or lost track of time. I did not think him deliberately disobedient. He is not...” Castiel pauses, “He is a good boy, Father, I thought him neglectful, not willful. It is proof of my lack of wisdom that I did not think of a mishap as the cause of his absence. I failed him by not considering…”

A flash of irritation, quickly masked, flickers across The Leader’s features. Maybe he is laying it on a little thick, better to hold his tongue for a while. Behind him he hears, Brother Alastair moving something and then he is being settled back onto a chair and The Leader is turning back to him with one of the glasses of lemonade, waiting while Castiel takes a sip.

“You know him best of all of us, Castiel. Is there anywhere he might have chosen to go to be alone for a while? The adjustment to life here must require time for personal reflection, where does Brother Jack go to think?”

Castiel settles both hands holding the tumbler loosely in his lap, the lemonade is cool inside the glass, the remnants of it taste sharp and bitter on his tongue, beneath the sweetness of the sugar. “We sometimes sit together by the ponds,” Castiel says. It’s a clever misdirection, they are in entirely the wrong direction, there are a number of outhouses and animal sheds just beyond them, which will take time to search. “You don’t think he has stumbled into the water?” He is impressed with the fringe of panic he hears in his own voice.

The Leader soothes him. “I am sure we will find him Castiel. Do not alarm yourself. We will not raise the alarm amongst the Brethren just yet. Sit and drink your lemonade, my son. Brother Alastair, will you take care of Castiel, while I go and direct the search?”

“Of course, Leader,” Brother Alastair lisps, sliding into view. “Brother Castiel is safe in my hands.”

Hiding his disquiet, Castiel sips dutifully at his lemonade.


	13. Undisclosed Desires

Benny, ever thoughtful, has left enough space for him to squeeze Impala past his truck and into the low structure they built to offer his Baby protection from the sea air. Every weekend he washes away the salt and layers the polish in three coats. A speck of rust would break his heart, but this structure was Cas’ idea and he feels his heart give a little surge as he remembers the shy look on Castiel’s face as he gazed at his feet, mumbling about how she needed protection from the weather. By the time he came home, the structure was up and the Cas was carefully hammering the siding planks to form the outside walls.

He is lost in the memory as he climbs out and opens the trunk, he hears Cas laughing, so instead of taking the groceries straight into the kitchen he hugs one of the paper bags to his hip and strolls down the side of the house to the beachside.

Cas and Benny are sitting side by side on the stoop steps and Benny is obviously mid-story, his arms moving expansively as he tells his tale, the sun flashing off the green of the bottle in his hand. Castiel throws his head back and laughs again. It is good to see him so relaxed, it appears that the two men have finally found their feet.

“Hey, slackers.”

“Dean!” Cas says, jumping to his feet. “Benny has offered me work over the winter months. He even thinks he knows a merchant who will maybe sell any extra furniture I can make in the meantime.”

“That’s great, Cas,” Dean says, working hard, and failing, to hide his lack of enthusiasm. “These groceries ain’t gonna put themselves away, buddy, how bout you give the food provider a hand?

He knows he’s being an asshole, but he can’t help the little surge of jealousy he feels. He’s kind of used to having Cas here with him and he knows that Benny’s winter work schedule takes him all over the neighbouring three states. He goes where the work is, sometimes weeks at a time.

He sees the exact moment that Castiel withdraws. Watches his excitement dim and it may be fanciful, but he is sure he can see the brilliant blue eyes he loves so much dull as the spark in them fades. But there’s no space or time to put things right with Benny here, so he does the only thing he can do and stomps up the steps of the stoop with their supplies.

***

Benny finally gets up to take his leave long after the sun has set and the night sky is a sparkling vista. The milky way stretches wide and strong overhead. The evening has been entertaining, and whilst the atmosphere seems convivial, Dean can feel an underlying awkwardness and a distance between them. Benny, however, seems oblivious, sharing story after story of his life on board ship.

So Dean is surprised when Benny drops a hand to his shoulder and grips it as they finish fixing the canvas back over his truck bed. “I’m sorry if I trampled where I shouldn’t, Cher, but he’s not just skilled, he’s talented. I think I can probably get him orders for bespoke work, not my line of repairs and basic labouring. I won’t be dragging him all over as you fear.”

Dean gasps at the accuracy. “How… Am I that obvious?”

“To me, pretty much, to him, maybe less so. I don’t know him very well, I know, but the way he talks about you… Dean, and you and he, you clearly have something special and whatever passed between you tonight hurt him deep. Listen to me brother, this place is nearly finished, and in my line of work, I come across plenty of hands in need of purpose and I know the look.”

He gives Dean’s shoulder a final squeeze and clambers into his truck. “This place is turning into a beautiful home. It’s good to see. Been standing empty too damned long,” he says, his face breaking into a brief but genuine smile, “Thought the sea was gonna claim her before anyone took up residence again.”

Dean stands in the bright light of his headlights as backs up and watches the red of his taillights disappearing through the scrub grass until he rounds the dunes out of sight. He sighs and stares at the outline of the beach house. It is their home and every scrap of it has come from them. There is not an inch of it that is not suffused with their combined efforts. He scuffs the sand with his boots and takes a deep breath.

He rounds the corner of the building and realises Cas has been busy in the ten or so minutes he has been with Benny. The grill has been doused with sand and besides a few divots in the soft sand, there is little sign that they were out here. The beach chairs are neatly folded on the stoop and their empty bottles are stashed in a bucket beside the door ready to go for recycling.

***

Benny is actually very good company and Castiel begins to wonder why he ever felt ill at ease with the man. Jealousy, Dr Linda provides, succinct as ever. And he acknowledges his own inner voice. Dean does make him feel a little possessive, in a way he has never felt about anyone else, ever.

“...I’ve already got a couple ‘o rebuilds booked in for November just up the coast and one of them, I could really use you. Lady wants all new cabinets and I was thinking to hire someone in anyways for the skilled parts, but you could do the lot. Me and the boys can do the grunt work and the repairs while you take care of the bespoke. She’s choosy mind. You might regret saying yes, but it’d be good money, a few weeks work and a good job will spread the word locally.”

Castiel is flattered. “I think we’re nearly finished with the alterations here, there’s only the bed left for me to finish,” he says. “I need to talk it through with Dean.” They haven’t discussed yet what is going to happen when they finish renovating this place. He thinks, at least he likes to think, what they have been doing here is building a home. But Dean is yet to actually say so and Castiel learnt long ago that assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.

“Well, in the meantime, I think we I’ve a couple of contacts inland who’d be willing to buy some of your furniture if you have time to make it. Maybe even set it down as samples and send you commissions off of the back of it.”

Castiel hands Benny another beer and they crack the bottles together in a toast. It’s his third beer, since the set the coals burning in the grill and on an empty stomach, after a full day in the sun it is going to his head a little. So much so that when Dean returns he completely misses the sound of the Impala’s purring motor. He is far too busy laughing and far too deeply engrossed in Benny’s latest saga about an inept seamate, until he hears Dean say, “Hey slackers.”

He blurts his news enthusiastically, but Dean’s reaction is underwhelming to say the very least. His jaw bunches and his voice sounds flat despite his words. He covers it quickly, but Castiel can’t help feeling crestfallen as Dean stomps away with the grocery bag.

He really isn't sure what he has done, but there is little he can do or say with Benny here. He begins to wonder why Dean has reacted this way, maybe he really doesn't want to stay and thinks that Cas is trying to trap him here, or perhaps he's just jealous that Benny and Castiel are finally getting along. It doesn't seem the right answer, but he's at a total loss otherwise. The evening is pleasant, Benny carries most of the conversation and Castiel lets the tall tales and jokey anecdotes, and the subtle buzz of a few too many beers soothe the subtle fractures of his interactions with Dean. The hard work of the day begins to catch up with him, so much so he finds his eyelids growing heavy and his attention drifting.

“So, brother, help me put the tarp back on the truck?”

Castiel rouses in time to see Benny stretching to his feet and offering Dean a hand up from his backward sprawl on the deck chair. It’s a starlit night, with barely a moon to speak of, so he can’t see the gentle amusement in Benny’s face, but he can hear it in his voice. “G’night Cas, best be getting yourself to bed, mon ami, the sand is only comfortable for about the first hour, I promise you.”

He makes short work of the tidy up, finally stifling the faintly glowing ashes of the grill with a scoop of sand, as Dean has taught him. He listens carefully for a moment, but all he can hear is the steady raw of the waves on the water’s edge. With a sigh, he takes himself to bed and flops onto his side, burying himself in the soft flannel sheets and downy pillows. He can smell Dean’s shampoo and the subtle odour of the scented deodorant he’s taken to wearing and realises he’s managed to switch the pillows. He curls in on himself, recognising his fearful thoughts for the irrational response that they are, but still unable to defeat them. When the floorboards shift under Dean’s creeping feet and the mattress dips as he slides into bed, Castiel pretends to be asleep.


	14. Walk Like An Egyptian

New York

Castiel cannot help the twitch of a smile as he observes the body language of the adults attempting to wrangle a group of 4th graders in the expansive marble lobby. The children themselves are the usual mixture of enthusiastic, bored and uncontrollable, and their chaperones are already at exasperation point. One of the female teachers looks familiar, and Castiel trawls his memory. Her name is

Hannah hands him his satchel carrying his props. “You really enjoy this, don’t you,” she states with a smile.

He doesn’t bother to reply. These free educational tours are another of his mini triumphs and he’s extremely proud of them. He’s not sure how Balthazar managed to charm the wealthy widow whose philanthropy funds them. He suspects it involves hard sought after artworks or favours of which he would not entirely improve, but he’s grateful anyway. She is quite charming, if a little eccentric and it’s no hardship to suffer the lascivious looks she gives him, or the fact that she calls him Charles, to be able to fill these young minds with the treasures and wonders of the ancient world.

He knows it’s a slightly unorthodox approach and his ability to gross out their teachers and parents that wins most of them around, but these tours are usually the highlight of his week. Anna picks up his Fedora and plops it on his head. “I still don’t know how the hell you managed to get Adler to let you dress up, though.”

***

“Any questions?” Castiel asks the now enthralled group, even the two girls who had seemed determined to prove they were far too cool, tough and streetwise to be interested in stuffy artefacts, or to think grown men dressing up in costume anything but ridiculous, had come round. And now he was in, what usually proved to be the most popular section. The mummification process. The array of tools never ceases to fascinate kids and he is soon fielding enthusiastic questions about brain hooks and jars of body bits. He knows he can be as gruesome as he likes, this group have already proven themselves to be a bloody thirsty bunch.

“This is one of our most prized pieces,” he tells them, pointing to the ornate hilt of and with the remnants of it’s obsidian blade mounted in the centre of the case. “This one was purely ceremonial and used to make the first incision, a small slit all the way down the left side of the body,” he demonstrates by stroking his fingers down his own side. “Obsidian is actually a stone, and the ancient Egyptians considered it sacred. But we think they used normal knives like this one to complete the process,” he reaches into his satchel and pulls out the replica he had made from it’s leather safety scabbard.

“The blade itself,” he says twisting it so it burnishes in the brilliance of the spotlights “is made of bronze, just like many of the statues in the lobby, but that doesn’t stop it being incredibly sharp.” He points to the tray of objects Hannah has placed on a side table for him to demonstrate. “What do you think? Which of the things on my tray will I be able to cut through with my embalming knife?”

It’s one of his favourite parts, the knife cuts through everything with the right amount of force applied, but he points to the coloured circles on the floor, so the children can stand on their chosen answers. This group is no different, they mill around, changing their minds while he continues his talk.

“A lot of you will maybe have the ingredients for making Mummies at home, apart from the bodies I hope!” he jokes as he uses the knife to slice up a watermelon, catching a look of horror on one of the teaching aids faces. “One of the most common drying agents the embalmers used was a mixture of S odium Bicarbonate and Sodium Chloride called Natron. Any of you know where you might find those _ingredients,” _he hints heavily,_ “_at home?”

Several enthusiastic hands reach for the ceiling and a couple of over excited guesses later one boy says, with the kind of confidence that suggests he knows rather than thinks he has the answer, “In the kitchen.” Castiel smiles encouragingly, and the boy adds smugly, “Sodium Chloride is salt.”

Several of the other children look as though his being right is nothing new and Castiel tries not to laugh. Class dynamics, he thinks, don’t alter much with time or place.

“...and sodium bicarbonate is baking soda, which I used to bake the cakes that you’re all going to have when we get back to class,” their teacher says giving Castiel an indulgent smile. He was right that he has seen her before, 'Miss Walters, call me Abigail’ is on her third class tour in as many months. She’s even volunteered to bring the next three classes.

He finishes his display with a flourish, pushing the sharp bronze blade through the bone of a turkey drumstick and demonstrating the clean cut it has made. He wipes the blade clean on a rag and stows it carefully away. Applauding them all, because obviously all the answers are correct.

“Right, I need you all to say thank you to Mr. Milton, and then make your way - quietly - downstairs with Mr Teague and Miss Lane so we can wait for the bus in the Lobby. I’ll be down shortly. Anyone who needs to visit the bathroom, or wants to go in the giftshop must ask first.”

“Thank you,” Abigail says, shaking Castiel’s hand, “That was entertaining and informative as ever, although with this group I may wish you weren’t quite so thorough. They’re a gruesome bunch.” She hands him a small brown paper bag and he looks at is surprised. “Just one of the cakes,” she tells him patting his hand.


	15. There She Goes

The Collective

He wakes to the sound of the alarm bell ringing. His limbs feel heavy and his brain is slow, his thoughts sluggish, as if his head is full of cotton wool. He swallows and tries to sit up, gripping at the arm of the sofa he is lay upon when his head spins and a wave of nausea and dizziness has him slumping sideways.

He tries to get his bearings, the last thing he remembers is sitting in The Leader’s office drinking lemonade in the bright sun of the afternoon, while he talked to him and Brother Alastair about Jack. Now he is alone and in darkness.

He pulls himself upright, more slowly and the vertigo inducing spinning settles to mere unsteadiness. He is on the couch in the corner of the anti-chamber to the Leader’s office, a blanket over his legs. He kicks it off and drops his feet to the floor.

The clamouring bell and the shouts of Collective members are louder once he opens the door and using the wall for support makes his way towards the exit.

“Fire. Fire.”

They practice for fires regularly within The Collective, they are their own fire service after all, but never in the dark and there is an edge to the raised voices that tells him this is no drill. Outside he sees the house mothers counting children, as they stand in orderly lines in their night clothes. Adults, as per their instructions, are running with buckets in the direction of a flickering red and orange glow, somewhere over the incline beyond the food hall. The flush of adrenaline as he recognises its location clears the lingering effects of whatever has caused his heavy sleep. The only buildings in that direction are on his own farmstead.

Instinctively, he grabs at the nearest bucket and moves with the flow of people. As he crests the hill, he can see people forming separate chains from the well and the animal watering pond. The horse drawn tanker and the Collective’s battered old fire tender are both being used to train hoses of water onto his home, but the wood frame is well alight. Fire bursts from windows on both the first and second floors, only the lean-to at the side remains untouched by the blaze, but it is only a matter of time before it catches. Even at this distance, Castiel can feel the heat on every patch of bare skin facing the inferno.

Groups of figures are throwing buckets of water over the barn and the animal pens, dousing them as hot cinders drop from the sky, threatening to set light to anything and everything they fall upon. Sparks fly high into the black of the night and the air is full of the smell of wood smoke, the sharp acrid tang of burning wool and hair spiking and drifting on the spiralling breeze.

He can hear a shouted warning over the roar and crackle of the fire, someone is opening the barn and the pens and the animals run, blind with panic, dodging away into the darkness. Better to roam and be rounded up later than to burn if the outbuildings do catch.

Someone grabs at his arm, and he spins, deflected by his own momentum into a tight circle.

“Brother Castiel is safe,” he hears a female voice shouting close to his side. “Leader, Elder Raphael, Brother Castiel is here.”

He shakes himself free and carries on running down the slope towards the house. He can feel nothing but panic. He left Jack and Meg hiding in the attic. The roof of the lean-to disintegrates into shards of shingle as one of the gas canisters stored there explodes skyward from the heat. People he has known all his life recoil, but are recovering quickly, bravely pressing back to their tasks. It is not for Castiel that they strive so hard, although many of them probably would, but his house is beyond saving. The fire must be brought under control, lest it spread elsewhere in the commune.

Fire burns bright jagged stripes into his eyesight. His eyeballs sting and his eyes water, he raises a hand to protect his vision.

No-one can possibly still be alive in what is left of his home, but maybe they got out. Maybe they are hiding in the barn or one of the pens. He has to know. He has to look for them.

He changes direction abruptly, running full pelt now, breath ragged as it tears in and out of his lungs, towards the outhouses. More people are noticing him now, pausing with relief writ large on their faces as he passes them.

He runs on, momentum carrying him at an angle into the edge of the pens, straight into strong arms and a solid chest. The face above it is soot covered, only eyes and teeth show, all he can see is a wide grin breaking the darkness like some perversion of the Cheshire Cat. “All clear,” the man says over his shoulder, pushing Castiel gently away from him, recognition flaring in his eyes, he pulls him back into a solid hug. “We thought you inside the house, Brother Castiel!”

Behind them someone shouts over the maelstrom of noise. “Praise the Lord and The Leader. CASTIEL IS SAFE.”

A third voice begins calling back up the hill. “Leader! Father! We are blessed, Castiel is alive. You were mistook. He cannot have been at home when the blaze took hold.”

Brother Daniel is holding him close and his voice is hot and loud against his ear, “I have never seen the Leader so perturbed, Castiel. He thought you lost and it took all of the Elders’strength and wisdom to convince him not to run into the flames to try and rescue you both.”

Behind them, the main roof beam of the house gives way and with a groan and a thunderous cracking noise that echoes around the natural basin in which his home sits, the upper walls and roof crash inward and downward, the chimneys toppling last, leaving whirlpools and eddies in the smoke and flames. The blast of hot air that rushes over the ground sets plants and scrub nearer the house alight and the Brethren rush forward fearlessly to stamp out the little fires and douse them with buckets of water and kicked up sand and dirt.

“The Leader tried to rescue…? Both?” Castiel replies, his ears are buzzing. “Both who?” Everyone is looking at him strangely, even with soot covered faces Castiel can see their confusion. Well that makes all of us, Castiel thinks. The sense of fuzzy detachment returns, and he can’t think clearly. This makes no sense. He was with The Leader in his office. Why would he think Castiel was inside the house? And who with?

The fire has lost its ferocity now that the air available to it has reduced following the collapse. The water from the hoses is beginning to make headway, the flames are reducing in size, licking through the wreckage almost tenderly, compared to the violence with which they blasted from the windows mere moments before.

“Where are Meg and Jack?” he mumbles, firm hands grips his shoulders as the world sways around him, lowering him gently to the ground as his legs buckle.

“I’ll take Brother Castiel,” The Leader’s voice is close now. “He is in shock.”

Bright circles expand like bubbles in his vision even as it dulls at the edges, the buzzing in his ears is so loud it begins to tickle his ear drums and then he is back in darkness.


	16. Here Comes The Night

New York

Castiel is running late as he heads to meet Bal for dinner. He was already reluctant to go to the opening of yet another ostentatious, over priced restaurant opening, when let himself be cajoled into accepting the invitation. The fact that it means spending several hours with the Starks, an extremely flirty open couple who he’s convinced are determined to try and bed them both was only overridden by Bal’s pleading. They are high profile collectors of objet d’art, and Bal wants their investment for his latest gallery. Now running, thirty minutes late, still dressed in his work clothes, covered in the dust and detritus of the museum storerooms and out of sorts after a thoroughly bad day, he just wants to go home.

Adler has been in attendance at the museum today, harping on about budgets. He called a meeting with two of the directors, because he wants to divert a huge chunk of the funds donated for the education program into a gala for the great and good and only told Castiel a few minutes before it was due to start, leaving him no time to prepare.

Luckily, Castiel knows his program inside and out and is able to quote statistics on the uptake on the family passes and number of repeat visitors and season pass purchases it has generated. He can’t link it to exact percentages in the gift shop, restaurant and cafes, but the directors are no fools, thankfully, so even when Adler had argued that the gala would create increased funding to expand the program, they remain unconvinced. Castiel knows damn well that it is because his boss wants an opportunity to ooze and schmooze and he suspects they know it too, so by the end of the meeting it had looked to be unlikely that Adler would get his way.

The directors are sufficiently impressed to hang around to observe his tour and that’s when his day truly goes to shit. His satchel of props is not in the lock cupboard in the central storeroom and of all the days it could possibly happen it’s the worst. He suspects Adler might have something to do with it and no doubt the satchel will turn up, but he can’t prove it, and reporting the loss of a highly dangerous replica embalming knife amongst other low level artefacts will only make him appear less competent. So he has to adapt his tour and his talks on the hoof. He’s enough of a professional, with Hannah’s steadfast support, to pull it off, but the whole experience leaves him feeling vulnerable, bringing back uncomfortable memories of intrigue and betrayal.

Hannah offers to help him hunt for the satchel after closing and he is worried enough that he decides he will go straight from work to meet Bal for dinner. He manages, while searching through some old boxes on a high shelf, to disturb some seriously disgusting old cardboard boxes. Hence the state of his clothes, and worse still, he is none the wiser as to where his satchel might be.

Bal is sanguine in the face of both his scruffiness and his lateness, making light of it with a gentle joke to Don and Maggie about the perils of living with an archaeologist.

The fact that he knows he is being unfair irritates him all the more. So by the time they have ordered their main course and Balthazar and Don have bickered amicably over the wine menu, Castiel is listlessly pushing the Amuse-Bouche around his plate and trying very hard to not take his mood out on everyone else at the table. All of which may be the reason he overreacts so badly when Bal begins to talk about the impending trip to London. He excuses himself from the table and makes for the restroom, intent on washing his face and a particularly harsh self talk. He knows Bal is probably annoyed with him for being so rude, but to bring up London seems especially cruel. He knows that Castiel is finding the whole thing difficult, because Castiel has told him how disappointed he feels. Even if he hadn’t he can never hide from Bal, the man has a sixth sense about his emotional state. Sometimes it feels like he knows ‘his Cassie’ better than Castiel knows himself. But to chat so casually about the trip, in front of people they barely know. It feels like Bal is exacting cruel and unusual punishment.

The dishevelled figure staring back at him in the elegant bathroom mirror, is in sharp contrast to his elegant surroundings. It is refined, reminiscent of the Parisien salons he has admired in books, with its beautiful art nouveau touches. As if even the choice of restaurant decor is mocking his lack of international mobility. He yanks petulantly at the lever of the extravagantly stylised pineapple soap dispenser.

“Cassie,” the hand that falls on his arm is gentle, but he still jumps sharply. The flow of water sprays up his front, mixing with the remnants of the dust into a brown sludgy stain that flowers across the white cotton of his shirt front. He grinds his teeth and doggedly refuses to look at Balthazar over the shoulder of his own reflection.

“Bad day at work? Or something more worrying?” the older man prompts gently.

Castiel continues to dab ineffectually at the mess over his stomach, the cotton is sodden, reminiscent of the slick mud of a river bank many years ago, slippery and ice cold soaking through his clothes and chilling his skin. It’s enough to provoke a flashback and he shudders, gripping the counter edge, his breathing escalating.

Bal is there instantly, ready to soothe and hold him as he usually does. The rage rises through Castiel like magma, as hot and overwhelming as it is unexpected. He has shoved Balthazar hard away from him with a shouted “Get off me, Bal”, before he has really had time to process it.

“Cassie,” Balthazar’s voice is calm, but Castiel can hear the faint tinge of shock and hurt, “I won’t try to touch you again, my love, but please, tell me what’s wrong? This really isn’t like you…”

“Just fuck off to London and leave me the hell alone.” It’s childish and the answering gasp aggravates him even more.

“Cassie, you don’t have to be jealous, because…”

“Don’t patronise me, Balthazar,” Castiel snaps. “I’m not jealous of Mick.”

“I know that you doofus,” Balthazar says, infuriatingly gently, “You’re jealous because you want to go to London and there’s...”

Another patron enters the bathroom and gives the two men a weird look as he moves past them to the stalls. Castiel lifts his hands and lets them drop in a gesture of frustration. “I just don’t want to talk about it anymore! I’m going home.”

“Ok,” Bal says softly, “I’ll make your excuses, sweetheart. Go and get some rest and I’ll tell you my news when I get home.”

“Don’t bother,” Castiel says, ungraciously, “I really don’t want to hear it.”

Balthazar stares at him open-mouthed, then his face clouds and Castiel doesn’t give him chance to recover enough to speak, just shoves past him and flees outside without stopping to collect his coat.

***

Castiel has spent the rest of the week avoiding Balthazar since their pseudo argument at the restaurant. It’s quite an achievement with lives as intertwined as theirs. He feigned sleep when Bal came in and gently knocked at his bedroom door that night and made sure he was gone the next morning, well before Bal was awake. He knows he’s being a total jerk, but somehow can’t stop himself. But after three and a half days of deleting Bal’s texts, ignoring his calls and sneaking in and out of their home, he can’t hide anymore, his friend has used Hannah to ambush him.

He has already decided that it is time to put on his big boy pants and apologise, when he is disturbed from his thoughts by a knock on his office door.

Hannah hovers just inside, silhouetted against the frosted fossil patterns of the side panel intended to make up for the lack of window, reluctant as ever to invade his cluttered office space. “I have something for you,” she says, hands behind her back, and he assumes that maybe she has found his satchel, but when she brings her hand forward, she reveals her cargo as a thick manilla envelope. “I’m sorry for interfering, CJ, I know how closely you guard your privacy” she tells him with a gentle, placatory smile. “I don’t know what is up with you two, nor do I need to know, but you’ve been together for the longest time and I hate seeing you so unhappy.” Castiel opens his mouth to set her straight, but she presses on, “Honestly, he didn’t look to be faring much better than you are. Perhaps just read what he has to say.”

She pats his shoulder and sets the envelope down on his desk and is gone before he can respond, the door clicking shut behind her. It’s way too thick to just be a note. He opens it a little clumsily and a second smaller envelope drops onto the floor under his desk with a thunk. He leans back in his chair to look, but it has gone right underneath, so he opens the note instead, intent on retrieving whatever is in there after he has read it.

Balthazar’s handwriting is always elegant, he approaches letter writing much as he approaches everything in life, with extravagant care, disguised as carefree flamboyance. The paper is thick and heavily textured, and the looping script has been written in deep indigo ink.

_Cassie,_

_I’m so sorry sweetheart, and I understand why you don’t want to speak to me at the moment. I had some stupid notion about surprising you, but your past is so overwhelming. I should have been more sensitive. _

_I know you thought it would be impossible to obtain a birth certificate, but I hired a genealogist and they managed through some magic to track down the register of your birth. It appears your father was determined that you should be a citizen, even if the rest of that ridiculous cult were not. Obviously it means using your birth name, but WE are going to London together, if you still want to and can find a way to forgive your, frankly, stupid old friend for being so careless with your emotional well-being. _

_I called in a favour or two, and they expedited the enclosed. Obviously, I understand if you no longer wish to accompany me, but you shall go to the ball, Cinderella, with or without me. The world is literally your oyster. _

_All my love_

_B._

It takes him a frustrating few minutes to push enough of his file boxes out of the way to get on his hands and knees and rescue the envelope. He knows what’s in it, of course. Trust Balthazar to be so humble. Balthazar is not in the wrong. He has never done anything but care for Castiel and be kind to him and Castiel is acutely aware that the fault here is all his own. Balthasar’s cuts to answer phone after two rings, it’s just after 2, he is probably schmoozing yet another client with an expensive luncheon somewhere. Another surge of guilt hits him like a sledgehammer, as he thinks about his behaviour in front of the Starks. He has a serious amount of grovelling and making up to do. And he’ll start tonight, by taking Bal to his favourite restaurant.

He picks up his phone to scroll through his contacts to make the booking and almost drops it when it instantly starts ringing in his hand. The contact flashes up as the Gallery number and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Did you push the wrong button again, Bal, or were you mid spiel?”

“It’s Alfie, CJ.” Castiel frowns, why is the barman from the club ringing him from Bal’s gallery. The young man sounds more than a little strained. In the background, Castiel can hear the hubbub of chinking glass and crockery. Followed by the definite thud of someone dropping something heavy and Castiel winces as Alfie barely covers the phone in time to shout, “Careful with that!”

“What the hell are you doing at the gallery, Alfie?”

“Bal asked me to help him set up for his Autumn opening tomorrow night.” Castiel feels a little surge of guilt. Of course, he’s been so busy sulking that he’d completely forgotten that Bal was prepping for the opening. He is such a jerk. He’s not sure dinner is going to be enough. “That’s why I’m calling, he said he’d be here to take over before I had to leave and I’m supposed to be at the club in an hour, we’re stocktaking and Crowley will sack my ass if I try to cry off again. Bal’s not answering his phone.”

“He’s probably just lost track of time with a client over lunch. Just leave everyone instructions for the next hour and then head off, I’ll finish early, and take over until he gets there.”

“Thanks, CJ, I’m sorry to call you, but I was getting a little desperate.” Castiel is about to hang up, when Alfie adds, “he promised he’d be here by 12, he must like this new investor a hell of a lot to let brunch go on this long.”

Hannah gives him an encouraging smile when he calls her to say he’s heading out early, he’s entitled to a full day a week to make up for giving up his Saturdays and he rarely takes it, so he has plenty of time owing. He grabs a taxi, it’s the quickest way to get across town, but even so it is just over an hour later when he leans forward to scan his credit card and darts up the stone steps into the converted warehouse space of Gallerie La Roche. The fitting team are a well-oiled machine, and despite Alfie’s concerns they are more or less finished when Castiel arrives. The white board in the office is bright with colour post-its, denoting questions and decisions of different levels of urgency for Bal to work through in the morning and Castiel has little to do, but thank them and close the place up. Bal’s cell is cutting straight to answerphone now and he is in truth a little worried. It is unlike his friend to switch his cell off, or let his battery run down. Castiel can’t remember Bal ever going incommunicado for this long. His phone is his life. He’s even tried the landline at the apartment, but that too is cutting to answerphone.

He sorts the post-its, and calls Hannah, leaving a message. He will take the Friday as well, come and help Bal all day tomorrow and be the best best friend ever throughout the evening opening. Nothing says sorry like free labour.

He moves through the gallery, towards the store room to check the back doors that open onto the alley are properly locked. He steps through the open archway into the main section of the gallery. The brick walls are broken by a ten foot deep white horizontal stripe, freshly mounted with works of art, each with a small printed card description, ready for the great and worthy of the New York art scene to peruse and critique. But the work that catches his eye is a single, enormous sprawling canvas, a glitch art piece of a dark haired androgenous figure, sitting on a white bed, the light striping the walls behind it are reminiscent of wings. It’s imposing, centrally placed and mounted high, hanging from the ceiling beams. A small red dot, confirms it’s paid for status. Castiel is surprised, it is unusual to give a pre-sold piece such a prominent position. Still, it is stunning and will presumably invite further commissions and interest in the artist, maybe Bal is taking a cut of those.

The back door rattles as he pushes at the bar, but it doesn’t give way he can feel the resistance of the locks, so he makes his way back to the front door shutting of all bar the front window lights and sets the alarm, letting himself out.


	17. Somewhere in Neverland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: physical abuse and restraint

The Collective

He becomes accustomed to the routine far too quickly. There is no outside light in Quarantine. So he has to rely on the rhythm of meals and punishments to work out the passing of time. He starts counting each breakfast, as soon as he is aware enough to do so. Once he stopped fighting at every opportunity, the use of the tazer and the fastening of his wrists behind his back with zip ties whenever he was left alone stopped, but he is still linked by a steel cuff and chain to an o ring riveted deep into the floor.

The first day he was left alone with his hands free he searched his cell. Now each day after his breakfast is delivered through the low hatch in the door, he marks the tile floor under the cot, using a chip of ceramic that has been broken away by one of the metal legs. He is careful to do it when he is sure he is not being observed. He suspects if Brother Alastair knew he was trying to keep track of the days he would scrub out the tally and take even that small measure of control over his own life away.

He has marked 22 breakfasts so far. The cuts he caused struggling to free himself from the zip ties are healed now, little more than a vaguely reddened circle of skin around each wrist remains.

He gives the impression of being a model prisoner and watches for his chance to escape. The sooner he complies and shows himself to be no threat, the sooner Brother Alastair will give him more freedom. Maybe even deem him ‘purged of sin’ and allow him to rejoin The Collective. He is yet to find out exactly what the sin he has been accused of is or whether his general disobedience was enough to land him here. Sometimes he wonders whether the fire was just a nightmare, certainly it goes unmentioned. And he has stopped asking, it’s not worth the pain of the beating he receives.

He finishes the oatmeal and drinks the last of the water, setting the paper bowl and cup back by the door, he tried refusing to eat and drink, until Alastair threatened to strap him to his cot and fit him with a feeding tube. Besides, there is no hope of escape if he is too weak to run. And if he wants to find out what has happened to Meg and Jack he has to get out of this place.

A painted cross is the only break in the monotony of the concrete walls apart from the door and he moves awkwardly towards it, the chain rattling over the tile as he limps the few steps across the floor. He aches all over from a mixture of beatings and the hours he spends in penance on the cold hard floor, but his knees are probably the worst. He eases himself down and kneels before the cross, biting his lip against the initial sharpness of the pressure on the deep bruises, suppressing a low moan as he folds himself forward so that his forehead rests on the hard tile. He will stay in this position until he is ordered to do otherwise, or he will receive another beating. Thus, he does not move when he hears the door opening. His only visitor has been Brother Alastair, and if he so much as twitches when the man enters this cell he is beaten for it.

He has little concept of time, but it seems to him that he has not been long on the floor, certainly his back is not aching as it normally does, and he still has some sensation in his feet.

It is not the weird rhythm of harsh, sibilant tones that meets his ears this time. “Is this entirely necessary, Brother Alastair?” The Leader’s voice is loud in the silence of the four walls, but Castiel stays in his place on the floor. He doesn’t even move when gentle hands touch his back. “Come Castiel, sit on the bed. Enough of this, Brother Alastair.”

Castiel lets himself be pulled from the floor. His feet may not have lost all sensation but his legs have lost all strength and it is only the Leader’s grip on his body that stops him falling.

“Oh, my boy, my poor boy,” the Leader’s voice is low and anguished. It is the first kind words Castiel has heard in so long the tears escape unbidden. “Fetch me painkillers and water. This will not stand, Brother Alastair. I give you some quarter by virtue of the results you achieve, but this is too much."

The Leader is rubbing his back in a gentle soothing motion, but all Castiel can feel is the sharp twinge of fresh pain as he presses over the many bruises and contusions on his back. He doesn't care, it's a physical reminder, as if he needs one, that The Leader's kindness is not real. He accepts the painkillers, swallows the water obediently and lies back on the bunk when he is urged.

"Remove the chain," The Leader commands as Castiel lets his eyes slide shut. "I will not see Castiel fettered like an animal. He made a mistake, and he has lost enough. Make sure when he wakes he is well fed, let him shower and give him fresh clothes. He and I have much to discuss." The familiar swish of his robes is clear signal he has left the room, even while less gentle hands are removing the metal from his ankle.


	18. Death of a Clown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: graphic description of a murder scene.

The night is quieter than usual and there’s not a single cab in sight, so he starts walking, knowing that the next street, much busier and lined with shops will be a better hunting ground for bright yellow.

The flowers are an impulse buy. He is strolling down the street, towards where he knows there is a cab rank, when he sees the blousy poppies in the window of the boutique flower shop on the opposite corner. The sky is already darkening and light spills onto the street, throwing a reverse shadow of the frosted name arced across the sidewalk. He hesitates minutely, they are not the traditional red, but a deep salmon bleeding into the softest cream each petal. They look so delicate that he just knows Bal will love them.

He carries them before him like a shield when he makes his way down the hallway to their apartment twenty minutes later. The heavy industrial looking door is double locked and he frowns. That is a sure sign that no-one is home. They both only use the single lock when they are in and waiting for the other to return. His disappointment is well-placed, the apartment is dark when he finally manages to turn both locks. He drops the poppies from under his arm and curses, loudly, just as their elderly, petite neighbour rounds the corner. Her mouth a thin line of disapproval, she already hated Balthazar, long before Castiel ever moved in. She tugs the lead of her unfortunate little dog and her door slams, an eloquent full stop to her unspoken disdain. With a foot in the door, he retrieves the flowers and is relieved to see the only damage is a couple of loosened and bruised petals.

He doesn’t need the soulless bleep of the alarm to tell him that Bal is not home. He sighs heavily, flicks on the lights and drops his keys into the bowl.

He knows there is a large glass vase in the back of the kitchen glass cabinet and he decides to arrange the poppies on the hall stand so that Bal will see them on his return. The water swirls around the glass, catching the spotlights and throwing bright rainbows over the steel splashbacks. There is a note on the fridge, Bal’s looping script informing him ‘back late’ and offering guidance on reheating leftovers. Bal may have been giving him space to get over his sulk, but it seems he is determined to ensure that he eats. He sighs again and sets the kettle boiling on the stove, opening the plastic seal and breathing in the scent of oregano and tomato. Setting the microwave, he starts arranging the flowers.

***

He had barely finished his tea, when he fell into a deep sleep on the sofa, and wakes in the morning with a crick in his neck and a drool patch on the cushions. The niggling worry has congealed, just like the half eaten lasagne on the glass coffee table.

He can’t believe that Bal would not have woken him if he had seen him sprawled here, in fact he was banking on the flowers, the sorry post it note on Bal’s bedroom door and his presence to ensure his opportunity to make the heartfelt apology he needs to get off his chest.

He gets up, waiting for his muscles to uncrimp. He gives up and limps on a partially numb foot through the semi open plan of their apartment. The bowl still only holds his own keys. He grabs his phone, but there are no new messages, no missed calls, other than an acknowledgement from Hannah made up of a string of emojis.

He rings Bal’s phone, but it cuts straight to the same jovial enticement to leave a message he has been listening to for the last 20 or so hours. The beep sounds and he leaves his first actual message, because he has to say it, the words are pressing against his teeth like a storm surge. “Bal, I’m sorry for everything. Please... I love you and I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks, and he hangs up and wipes his hand over his eyes. They feel gritty and his mouth tastes gummy. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, spraying himself with deodorant in lieu of a shower, he tuts as the spray yields nothing but a blast of air that tickles at his underarm hair. He wants to get on with finding Bal. There is no way, even if he has spent the night elsewhere that Bal won’t be at the gallery this morning.

He tries ringing, but his own voice tells him the galleries opening hours and he thinks about an afternoon of silliness as they spent a couple of hour trying recording that very message, because Bal kept pulling faces at him to make him laugh. He just wants to see his friend. He grabs a fresh can of deodorant from his cabinet and manages to knock some of the contents into the sink, he curses, but leaves the mess, sniffing suspiciously at the crease of his sleeve seam, but his t-shirt doesn’t stink. He can just throw on some pants and be down there in half an hour.

He hears the steady patter of rain against the outside window and is rummaging in the hall closet when he remembers with irritation that he didn’t go back and collect his winter jacket from the restaurant yet. He grabs his old tan trench coat. It’s not really warm enough, but it will hold off the worst of the weather.

***

When he arrives outside the gallery, a man in overalls is standing under an umbrella forlornly peering through the front window. The contractors work van is idling at the kerb, and an equally bored looking man watches Castiel approach in the side mirror.

The man in overall straightens and Castiel realises it is the owner of the fitting firm he met yesterday. He was momentarily thrown by the overalls, yesterday Yatin Banerjee had been wearing a sharply cut suit. “Did Balthazar send you to open up?” he says abruptly, as he recognises Castiel. “He only booked us for the half day today, and I got another job lined up for the afternoon and I’m two men down.” That explains the overalls, Castiel supposes, “I know we are nearly done, but you know Balthazar, he always wants perfect and often changes his mind last minute…”

“He’s not here?” Castiel sounds alarmed even to his own ears. He rummages through his pockets, glad that he has the gallery keys attached to his main bunch. He fumbles with the lock in his haste to open the door. “He wasn’t at home last night. This gallery is his pride and joy. He _must_ be here. ”

“Maybe he’s just out back,” Yatin says kindly, taking the keys from Castiel’s shaking hands, “Or fetching one of those expensive coffees he loves so much.”

Yatin has barely finished turning the key, before Castiel pushes past him and rushes in, “Bal? Bal?” he almost runs through the gallery and throws open the office door. The post its on the white board rustle in the breeze of his motion like crisp autumn leaves defying the North wind. Behind him, perhaps caught in the contagion of his panic, he can hear the workmen moving through the building, calling out for Mr Roche, and Balthazar, depending on their levels of familiarity. One of them is climbing the stairs to the mezzanine floor, Castiel can hear his boots clanging like a tolling bell on the wrought iron.

Castiel pings at the band on his wrist as his breathing escalates. Not now, not now, he thinks angrily. NOT NOW. In desperation he slams his fist into the brick of the outside wall, feeling his knuckles split he winces with the pain, but it grounds him. He’ll suffer any amount of approbation from Balthazar later for hurting himself, just so long as he is there to give it. A pinging band may work for imagined anxieties, but what we have here is ‘gen-you-eye-n’ panic, he laughs a little hysterically at the southern accent of the voice in his head. And the workman just outside the door gives him a funny look.

Castiel swallows and attempts to get a grip. He shoves his bleeding fist into the deep side pocket of his trench to hide it from view and tries to think. Where else would Bal be? Maybe he’s been at home this whole time. His bedroom door was shut, but why didn’t he put his keys in the bowl. They always put there keys in the bowl. And why didn’t he wake him up. Has he really blown it? Is Bal really angry with him? Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to him. Maybe that’s why his phone is off and he’s not here. Maybe… No, the note, the passport. Bal is his centre. He has been there through worse than this. He has scraped Castiel from rock bottom, and provided him a framework to grow his own life, until he was sturdy enough to stand alone.

They live together because he is family. They love each other, forgiving and understanding as only true friends can be. He pushes the poisonous inner voice back where it belongs. He has to message all their friends, see if any of them are with Bal, or know where he is. He’ll start with Alfie, if Bal was at the club last night, Alfie will know where he’s gone. He’s reaching for his phone when one of the workmen gives a startled yell. “Fucking hell.”

Other voices raise in a babble of comments, Castiel follows the sound, several of the crew are standing under the archway leading into the main gallery. They are talking over one another. “It wasn’t like that yesterday!” one of them comments idly. “These artists…”

Yatin joins them, “That’s not Denzler’s work, you idiot, that’s vandalism. Pure spite.”

It cannot be, and then he realises. The alarm. The alarm was off when they came in this morning. In his distress he didn’t realise, but he is sure he set it last night when he left.

Castiel pushes past them, the imposing centre piece of the exhibition is daubed with red. It is still wet in places and, it drips sluggishly from the bottom of the canvas. Where last night had been only an empty expanse of floor, a line of puddles of varying sizes lie in a more or less straight line along the expensive wooden herringbone patter, staining it dark at the edges, pooled in varying shades of red. At one end, there is a metal stand holding a crisp white card. A deep crimson rivulet curls over the words, The Angel of Thursday, by A. Denzler, commission by B. Roche. Castiel raises his eyes back to the painting, realising it’s significance for the first time.

The marks on the painting are not as random as he first thought, there are clear stripes within the sweeping marks, as if a very tall child has finger painted over the surface. They are clumsy certainly but the crude marks are symbols clearly recognisable to Castiel none-the-less.

He goes numb as the meaning of them hits him. He is beyond panic. His only thought. Home. He needs to get home. Yatin Banerjee is shaking his arm, speaking to him, but Castiel can only hear the pounding of his own heart. He breaks free and runs. Runs as hard and fast as he can, down the street, it’s three blocks to their apartment and he doesn’t stop. He crashes past people on the sidewalks uncaring. He doesn’t wait for the elevator, ignoring the building manager and the maintenance man who call out to him as he takes the stairs three at a time. He is gasping for air as he rounds the corner onto their landing, lungs burning. Their apartment door which he knows he closed this morning is wide open and there are people in their apartment, people he doesn’t know. Flashes of light come from Bal’s room, beyond the crushed remains of poppies lying strewn across the deep carpet. Momentum carries him as far as the doorway, before he slams to a halt against the door jam.

The photographer, poised over the bed, turns his face upward toward the sound of the disturbance, his eyes black in the gloom of the room, the staggered flash goes off where his thumb rests still on the camera, illuminating the tableau on the bed in a stutter of vivid colours.

The whole space is a glimmering, shining wet mass of flesh tones, red and black. A jumbled mess of anatomy, recognisable only at its edges where there the angular rounds of joints filter down into toes and fingers. A curve of the sodden duvet partially obscures what remains, but Castiel can still see enough of the face to know who it is. To know who lies in his own bed, butchered and dissected like a laboratory rat. Organs splayed, somehow seeming more in evisceration than a human body should contain.

The air tastes metallic, the ferrous smell overwhelming. Castiel grips at the crisp architrave around the door, swaying, but resistant to the tug of words and gentle hands somewhere beyond his focus. He stares and stares, somehow can’t turn away from the horror before him, the image fading back into negative black, but burnt beyond the remission of memory repression into his mind.


	19. Love is a Stranger (in an open car)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some seriously negative self talk.
> 
> Oh and a little respite from all this darkness.

When Dean made it to their bedroom, Castiel was already buried under the covers, his back to the centre of the bed. He hesitates briefly, thinking about waking him, but decides it is perhaps best to let him sleep. He can apologise in the morning, so he slips into bed and lies on his back staring into the darkness until eventually, after what seems like hours, he falls asleep.

***

When he first wakes, he isn’t sure what has roused him, but the cold space beside him is like the douse of an icy bucket. His outstretched fingers, acting under muscle memory, are used to finding Cas, sleep warm and drowsy, not empty sheets. The light creeping into the room through the double doors is the soupy grey of a cloudy dawn. The whole beach beyond the rain streaked glass is colourless, like a desaturated art print, in the half light. The en-suite through the archway is empty and the only sounds are the drifting patter of the rain, the soft whistle of the wind and the familiar settle of beams and shingle under the weather. 

He swings himself upright and the wood under his feet is cool and he fumbles under the bed for the flip flops he uses as slippers. He can’t find them. The air carries the promise of the colder weather to come and he shivers as he discards the covers. Goosebumps raising in creeping tides over his skin. He’s almost afraid to call out, but he does anyway, “Cas?”

There is no answer. He grabs a flannel and throws it on over his t-shirt and shorts. He curses himself for not clearing the air yesterday, because he is almost certain that his own stupid, jealous reaction has worried Cas enough to stop him sleeping. And he knows that when Cas can’t sleep he leaves their bed, so his insomnia doesn’t disturb Dean, because he is just that good.

There is no welcome smell of coffee when he opens the door to the main body of their home. No sizzle of bacon, no gruff, vaguely tuneful hum as Cas shuffles round and sings along to the radio while he cooks breakfast. The room is dull and empty. A fresh squall throws a pebble rattle of rain against the windows and when Dean rounds the corner towards the back door, the first thing he notices is the absence of Castiel’s trench, missing from its hook by the door and the scattering of dry sand on the pad of lino where his boots normally sit.

Dean grabs his own jacket, and thrusts his feet into his own boots, not bothering to tie his laces. The door tugs away from him as he opens it, and he feels a nail tear as he grips it against the wind. He can’t quite believe that Cas is out walking the beach in this weather, but Baby is still safely tucked up under her shelter, so it seems the only explanation. The rain soaks his bare legs and by the time he is far enough down the sand to be have a clear view up and down the beach, past the dunes and banks of sand his bare feet are squelching in his boots.

He sees a figure standing in the edge of the dunes, some distance away, but his relief is short lived, although the man is dark haired and tall, he is clearly not Castiel. Dean frowns. It’s a quiet stretch here, and at the crack of dawn, in heavy rain, a stranger’s presence jars. Even more innocuous, Dean recognises the dark object in his hands as a camera with a zoom lens. It’s hardly the weather for photography. He starts towards him, thinking to ask if he has seen Castiel, but the man turns abruptly and disappears back between the dunes. 

Rain drips from his hair, creeping under the collar of his jacket and running icy fingers down the knots of his spine. He turns back to the beach house, the cell reception along the stretch of beach and through the scrub that stretches inland is patchy, but he grabs his phone and tries calling Cas anyway. It clicks through to ansaphone within a few rings, so he fires off a text. 

**I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be an asshole. U’ll catch UR death. Come home or call me I’ll come get U**

He knows the text has gone, the little green tick tells him that. He grabs a towel and rubs angrily at his hair and legs, kicking off his squelchy boots and pulling on some pants. His jeans stick stubbornly to his damp legs and he hops around on one foot until the denim unsticks enough from his calves and thighs for him to pull them on properly. He grabs his keys and heads out to the Impala, set on only one thing. He has to find Cas.

***

Castiel listens as Dean’s breathing eases into the pattern of sleep. He tries to tell himself it’s just some a little spat and that all they need to do is talk it out, but he finds it preying on his mind. So knowing from past bitter experience that he is not going to sleep, despite how dog-tired he felt less than an hour ago, he slides carefully from the bed.

He stares out through the french doors at the beach. The moon is high over the ocean and it’s reflection casts on the choppy surface like a broken crystal ball. It’s still not really cold, certainly nowhere near as cold as it would be in New York at this time of year, but there is a sharp nip to the air and he decides he had best wrap up before he slips out onto the stoop.

His phone is in the pocket of the thick flannel he wore earlier. It’s Dean’s shirt really, but Castiel likes to wear it, it is soft and frayed, worn in by hours of movement. He snuggles into it and tries not to let his overactive brain make more of Dean’s reaction to his news than was really there.

It could be that despite being adamant that the two should and would get along he is jealous now that they are. But that’s ridiculous really, after all it is Cas dancing around the green eyed monster where Benny is concerned. Not Dean. So really, the only other possibility, the one he really doesn’t want to face, is that Dean reacted that way because he knows Cas won’t be here to take the work and doesn’t know how to tell him, because this is only temporary. He’s a kind and generous man, so the idea of letting Cas down is bound to make him withdraw. He doesn’t owe Cas a damn thing, he’s done so much for him already.

He’s not like Bart, he doesn’t use his offers of help to control and manipulate him. He doesn’t want to keep him vulnerable and needy, so he can use him for sex and play the big strong man. Dean does everything he can to help. _The sex is good, thought, isn’t it Castiel. _The sibilant voice winds up from the depths of his self doubt. _Sinfully, good. Maybe that’s all he wants you for._

He hugs his knees to his chest, crossing his arms and curling tight into himself. _Just because it feels safer, doesn’t always mean it is safer, Dr Linda reminds him. It’s human instinct, but it doesn’t really even protect the body and it certainly doesn’t protect your heart or your mind. _That session in her carefully arranged office with its muted colours and scented candles, neutral and calm like the tone of her voice… Admitting his worst failure into the space between his knees, his own breathe brimstone hot through the thin protection of his summer pants. _Your greatest failure up until that point anyway, the more spiteful inner voice reminds him. _More snake like and menacing than the real man._. You weren’t done with just letting your best friend burn were you?…How many people can one man fail in a lifetime?_ Bal’s face looms in his mind and fresh pain swirls in his chest. He really is reliving his greatest hits tonight.

“No,” he says aloud into the wind, startling himself. “Stop it.” His anger at himself surprises him. It’s just a stupid misunderstanding and second guessing someone else’s motivations is equally stupid. _You are not responsible for the reactions of others, Dr Linda opines, only your own actions._ Shut up, he thinks. I know I’m not. And I’m not gonna sit on this stoop like some pathetic pity party. I’m gonna go to bed and in the morning WE are gonna talk this shit out. I love Dean, and I’ve never told him. How’s he supposed to know how I feel? Maybe he’s second guessing everything, too. 

He stands so suddenly his head spins a little with the loss of blood pressure. And I’m laying off the beer, too, he things, grabbing at the rail of the stoop. It makes him melancholy. He yawns and wipes his hand over his face. A swirl of sand flips up in the wind and scatters along the step, and that small movement draws his eye and he lifts his head in time to see a brief flash further down the beach, almost in the edge of the dunes. 

The sand glows, ethereal, its colour drained by the moonlight, patches of grass and the deep shadows cast by the dunes inky black and dark in comparison. He is about to dismiss it as a reflection on a wind blown fragment of rubbish, when he sees it again. Moonlight glinting off a reflective surface indeed, but the shadow around it is unmistakably human. He makes a pretence of stretching again and steps back as if he is going into the house, but instead he presses himself back against the smooth, weather beaten wood, watching carefully. 

He ignores the pounding of his heart. It could just be some random thing. This stretch is remote, but occasionally the local teens come down to the beach to hang out, or make out, away from prying eyes. But they are usually raucous, faces glowing with reflected fire or the glare of screens. The figure stands and is silhouetted briefly against the wall of dune behind it and the shape of the object dangling from one hand is obvious. Castiel is no longer in any doubt. Someone is watching this house.

***

Dean is still sound asleep as he stuffs a few basic provisions into his backpack. He wonders briefly about waking him, but he knows if he does, Dean will try to stop him. Their watcher is gone, Castiel heard the faint clunk of a car door carried on the wind and then the soft purr of an engine as they left. The dome of illumination from the headlights moving steadily inland. Dean is safe. For now. 

He checks his cell again. It’s a little after four, the walk into town will take him an hour tops. The bakery in town opens at six. He will message Benny and Dean from there, warn them both and then he can ask around, find out if there is a stranger in town showing any interest in them. He missed the signs in New York partly because he wasn’t looking for them and partly because a heaving metropolis is easy to hide in. A little seaside town full of polite, but decidedly nosy townsfolk will offer no such cover. If his worst suspicions are true, he will ask Benny to take Dean somewhere safe and lure Alastair away.

He puts on his trenchcoat and carries his boots outside, the sand is cold under his feet and a thick bank of cloud has covered the moon, by the time he clears the dunes the rain is falling hard and dripping from his hair. 

***

Dean is frantic by the time he reaches the road into town. His cell beeps, as he clears the dead zone through the dunes. He risks glancing at it as he drives. Cas. Oh, thank god. One hand steady on the wheel as he flicks open the message. 

**I’m sorry 2. At bakery. **He flicks his thumb over the screen. **Stay put. 5 min awy. **This is not a conversation they can have on the phone no matter how much he wants the reassurance of hearing that gravelly voice.

***

He pulls Baby to a halt opposite the little shop. The rain has ceased and the cloud is beginning to thin. The dawnlight is a soupy grey. The cosy glow through the bakery window a high spot of colour in a washed out art print. The tendrils of warmth stretching across the street toward the Impala and the little park beyond. 

By the time he is out of his seat and standing beside the car, Castiel is hurrying towards him. 

“You scared the crap out of me, Cas!” his voice is low and he knows he sounds angry. He is. Now the first flush of relief is over. He sees Castiel’s movement stall, hesitating a few feet away and he grabs him and draws him into his arms. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!” He flexes his fingers into the damp of the trenchcoat. “Waking up and finding you gone. I thought, hell, I don’t know what I thought. Every bad damn thing at once, I guess.”

Cas mumbles something into his shoulder and he pushes him back, lifting him slightly, til Cas is sitting on his precious Baby’s hood. He cups his cheek. “Are you all right? What the hell happened?”

“I got spooked,” Cas said. “I couldn’t sleep last night and I was on the stoop and I thought… oh God it seems so stupid now… I thought...” 

“You thought you’d go for a quick walk into town to clear your head?” Dean asks, “In the pouring rain, in the middle of the night?!”

“No.” Cas says firmly. “Dean, I saw someone on the beach. I thought they were watching us. I thought you were in danger and I couldn’t… I had to find out. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, I thought it was happening again and I couldn’t bear it. I can’t lose you. Not like that. I just can’t. I love you, Dean. And I’m not expecting you to love me back, and I know we’ve more of less finished the renovations and it’s way past time for you to carry on down to Cali, to Sam, like you originally intended, but I was hoping...”

Dean just stares. He knows what he just heard. Knew it anyway, truth be told, but hearing it. Explicit and plain between them. It’s the last barrier, his doubts melt away. 

“Dumbass,” he whispers, and he’s not sure who he means really. Cas stops speaking, staring at him and he sees a mixture of fear and hope on the face he’s come to hold so dear. The same fear and hope he’s been feeling himself for the last few weeks, since his little epiphany. “Benny’s right. We are a pair of dumbasses.”

Cas tilts his head, confused. “Benny?”

“Yeah, Benny. He more or less told me to pull my head out my ass, last night. I love you, too, Cas. I don’t care if we stay here, or we go visit the Moose, or hell, emigrate to China. I love you and I wanna be with you, wherever. That’s why I was such an ass last night. I was worried if you started working with Benny, you’d be travelling all over, like he does…”

“A pair of dumbasses,” Cas agrees, sliding his arms around Dean’s waist and pulling him closer. “A complete pair of totally hopeless dumbasses.”

Dean’s stomach decides it’s had enough of their romantic bullshit, with the smell of all those baked goods and gives a hearty growl. They laugh and kiss, and for that one little moment the world is perfect.


	20. Nothing Else Matters

New York

He spends the first few days heavily sedated in a hospital bed, while the initial investigation continues without him.

By the time he is recovered enough to actually answer their questions, he sits hollow eyed and calm in his hospital bed. The initial interview is perfunctory, kept short by the hovering medics who shoo the detectives away after 15 minutes, with the insistence that Mr Milton is still in deep shock and needs quiet and rest.

He is compliant to all instruction, offering his arm and swallowing pills with little interest. He consumes the food and drink they put in front of him, purely because they tell him to, chewing and swallowing mechanically even though everything tastes metallic. That night after they remove the sedation, he wakes screaming and thrashing and disturbing the whole ward, so they move him to a single room and up his late night meds. He spends the next day watching the shadows and sunlight counting time between meals and medical interventions as they move across the wall in front of his bed, until the doctor comes to discharge him, with a bag of medication and a letter of introduction to a local inpatient clinic if he chooses to take it. He stands in his hospital room, shrugging his arms into his trench coat over a set of hospital scrubs, because he has no idea where his other clothes are. Someone found him a pair of old running shoes in his size and they squeak slightly as he moves his feet over the tiled floor.

His home is a crime scene, he doesn’t even know where his phone is, until one of the nurses hands him a receipt. Apparently he dropped in the apartment and it has been secured as evidence. He is just wondering where the hell he is going to go, when the door opens and Hannah appears. Her soft blue eyes look worried above her over bright smile.

***

They arrest him as he steps out of the hospital lobby.

Hannah tells him not to worry as they cuff his wrists behind him and fold him carefully into the waiting police car. She needn’t be so concerned. Castiel doesn’t care enough about himself to worry.

***

The attorney she finds him, Harry Spengler, looks way too young to be at college, let alone have passed the bar and become a public defender, but he is calm and steadfast in the face of the mountain of evidence the PD have accumulated against his client.

Statement upon statement implies his guilt. The case is salacious enough, with its hints of ritualised killing and the victim just prominent enough to stir local media interest, so the pressure is on the PD to make an early arrest. And they are certainly being very thorough.

The Starks, other diners and the bathroom attendant have provided a multi-faceted description of their argument at the diner. Adler has wasted no time in denouncing Castiel’s character. Their neighbour from across the hall has clearly enjoyed her moment if the descriptions of the sounds of debauchery and the comings and goings of ‘many men at all hours’ are anything to go by.

But the physical evidence is even more damning: It is Castiel’s bronze embalming knife that has been used to mutilate Mr Roche. It is Castiel’s fingerprints on the alarm panel in the Gallery, unsmudged and unsullied by the hands of another.

There are no signs of a break in at either the apartment or the Gallery, only he and Bal have keys and he has no alibi.

Spengler sits beside him as they bombard him with questions. What were his movements on the days leading up to Mr Roche’s death? Did they argue in the apartment? Was he aware that Mr Roche had employed a private detective to investigate his own past? Was that what had provoked him?

They ask him about the hieroglyphics on the painting. And why he chose to vandalise it. Does he suffer from internalised homophobia? Is that why he daubed a curse against the fallen man on his own image?

They describe in detail the things they have found in Bal’s closet and ask intrusive questions about his sex life. Was his relationship with Mr Roche sexual? Was he aware of Mr Roche’s sexual proclivities? Had he ever engaged in sex with multiple partners? Was he a willing participant in Mr Roche’s S&M lifestyle or had he been forced in some way? It is the only time that Castiel actually responds. The denial is automatic. “Bal would never hurt me. He saved me.” He retreats deep in his own mind, their questions barely registering as they continue pressing him.

Spengler protests within the limits of the law, pointing out that Mr Milton has been co-operative throughout and is still under medical care, but the detectives seem unmoved. Perhaps it is sheer frustration that pushes them into shoving the crime scene photos across the table.

Spengler’s protest is sharp and harsh, but it is too late for Castiel to avoid the image of Bal’s face. His eyes are half-open, lined with thick black Kohl, the elaborate curves painted over the skin of his nose and cheeks, skin so pale it is almost the same colour as his faded blonde hair. A trail of dark dried blood runs from his nostril and follows the soft creases of his face, down into the garland of poppies around his neck, their soft salmon and cream petals stained with spots of blood. Castiel barely has time to turn his head before he begins retching and they have to suspend the interview as the panic attack hits him with its full force.

***

The irony that he is being held in The Tombs, which owes its nickname to the Egyptian revivalist architecture of the first jail building in Manhattan is not lost on Castiel. The conditions are considerably better than Quarantine, there is no Brother Alastair here to torture him and he is kept away from other prisoners because of his ‘vulnerable mental state’. Spengler doesn’t think it’s good enough, he’d argued vociferously for Castiel to be interned in a secure hospital wing, but a mixture of overcrowding and the DA’s persistence at his arraignment about the serious nature of his alleged crime have him awaiting his trial date in a common cell instead of a hospital bed.

He is not sure how long he has been staring at the graffiti-covered wall opposite his bunk. He’s given little thought and cares even less as to whether it’s just him who spends all day locked in a little room or if all the inmates have it this bad. The only times he leaves the confines of its grey painted walls and grim metal fixings is to meet with lawyers and cops or be prodded by medics.

It’s not like before, this time he exists in three layers, he does at times retreat deep inside his own mind, and the real world is, of course, still out there, but this time there is a third tier, a section of himself that _knows_ he is suffering some kind of mental collapes. “It’s entirely natural after a traumatic experience to drop into a dissociative state,” Dr. Linda’s reassures him in his own mind. “Don’t worry,” her voice reminds him yet again, “I’m not an auditory hallucination, you are not suffering a psychotic break. I am your thoughts...let's ...”

He startles from his inner conversation as the scraping rattle of the observation grid echoes round the cell like the screech of some wounded alien. “Time for another chitchat, Milton.”

He unfolds his crossed legs and moves straight to his feet in one fluid movement. Presenting his wrists for the guard to manacle. Castiel has offered none of them any trouble and they treat him accordingly, with the same total indifference he shows them. He lets the heavy-set figure escort him down the corridor towards the security door that leads to the elevators. The intercom buzzes. “Milton, 87926 for transfer to second floor interview.”

“Proceed, Clifford,” the disembodied voice is accompanied by the buzz of the electric door locks.

The interview rooms are no less drab or utilitarian than the rest of the building, but they do smell slightly better.

Spengler greets him, as always, with a soft smile. They settle into chairs either side of a large table. And Spengler sets his briefcase on to it, spilling papers and documents onto the surface. Clifford takes position outside the glass panel of the door, settling comfortably into his squared off stance.

“You look better,” Spengler says cautiously, “more… with it.”

Castiel shrugs in answer and the chains dangling from the cuffs clink as they shift.

Spengler clears his throat and pulls out his notebook. “So, much of the forensics is back now. I need to talk to you about some pretty detailed things if we’re going to mount a proper defence. I only got some of the paperwork as I was leaving the office, so we can go over it together if you think you’re up to it.”

“As I ever will be,” Castiel responds, his voice is gruff with lack of use and he swallows hard. He has to fight this, for Bal’s sake. He might be too late to save him but he can force the authorities to look for his real killer. It’s giving him purpose. A reason to keep living. Spengler flicks a worried glance at his non-committal response, handing him a bottle of water, before he presses on.

“Ok, so, much of their evidence is circumstantial or explainable, we know all about the fingerprint evidence, you lived in that apartment and were a regular visitor to the gallery, so all that proves is what we already know and the available surveillance footage shows. You had been present in both locations.”

“But importantly, I have an expert witness willing to testify and demonstrate that it is entirely possible for a third party to leave your fingerprints undamaged and still deactivate that alarm. Mr Roche’s keys are still unaccounted for, so although you clearly had opportunity, so did anyone who might have taken those keys. They will try and suggest that you hid them or disposed of them to reduce suspicion on yourself, but there’s no proof you ever had his keys. So it's he-says-she-says unless they turn up covered in forensics.”

“The autopsy evidence, with its... well, the, erm, ritualistic stuff obviously points straight to your involvement.” Spengler grimaces an apology as Castiel flinches.

"I didn't… wouldn't… Bal," his voice breaks and he swallows hard, "I loved him, he was my best friend, I couldn't hurt him this way. I wouldn’t… I owed him everything..."

"None of that plays to your advantage CJ. It just looks as though Mick Davies was coming between you and you were jealous. Look, I know this is tough on you, but we have to go over the physical evidence. We don’t have much time to settle your defence.” Spengler sighs. "The knife was bad enough, but now they have found..."

“I told them already, that knife was missing for days…”

“Yes, yes, I know, but it’s a matter of proof. Hannah Carroll has stated that you and she were looking for the satchel containing the knife on the morning of the argument, but they will try and spin that as evidence of pre-meditation on your part and just ridicule me for looking for the one-armed man.”

Castiel frowns and Spengler elaborates, “Dr. Kimble? The Fugitive? Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones hamming it up for all they are worth? Never mind. The prosecution will use it against us, just trust me on that.”

Spengler shrugs and continues, watching Castiel’s face carefully for his reaction. “This report is on the evidence yielded by the forensic investigation of the gallery. They found a container in the dumpster out back. The contents are a match to the substance on the painting. And the analysis is back, well, it’s just fucking weird, if you ask me. It’s a mixture of blood, salt and bicarbonate of soda.”

“Blood and natron?” Castiel says feeling his throat contract, but Spengler misses the signs, he is busy scanning the report.

“Bi-car-bon-nate,” Spengler spells out absent-mindedly, fingers flicking the papers back and forth. “Oh, this is bad, this is bad. The container, a pair of rubber gloves covered this blood mix… CJ,” he looks up for the first time and is half on his feet as he finishes, “It was all wrapped up in your coat.”

Castiel can barely see him, he is rasping for breath, eyes rolling as his vision blackens at the edges. He hears the echo of the guard entering the room and then it is all heat prickling and distant shouting as he slides from his chair to the ground.

***

The first day of his trial proper is also his last. Castiel has changed into a suit, provided to him with a note from Spengler, he and Hannah have been shopping apparently. How nice for them, Castiel thinks a little sarcastically. He is escorted to his seat in the courtroom by an armed court usher. Spengler running late, arrives out of breath, he slides into the seat next to Castiel and gives him an apologetic smile and starts to explain, just as the courtroom is called to order and they all stand for the judge.

So, it blindsides Castiel completely, when the DA declares the motion to drop all charges. He hears a disgruntled snort somewhere behind him, and when he glances over his shoulder he can see that the thin blue line, making up the second row of the courtroom audience do not look entirely convinced. He doesn’t recognise anyone else in the room. His friends, if that’s what they still are, such as Hannah and Alfie, are witnesses. Were witnesses, he corrects himself. Beside him, Spengler is looking both relieved and pleased. His smile is even broader, if that is possible, and he looks even younger than usual.

Within thirty minutes Castiel is standing, wearing the contents of Spengler’s shopping bags, blinking in the brilliance of a spring day, on the rear steps of the courthouse with Spengler asking him three times whether he needs a ride somewhere before he actually hears the question. He shakes his head, but Spengler grabs his elbow and pulls him along the sidewalk, “Journos,” he says simply by way of explanation and Castiel lets himself be bundled into the back of a cab.

***

He barely listens as Spengler explains the new evidence that has set him free. The expert opinions of his academic fellows, unanimous that the clumsy hieroglyphics were not the work of an expert in the field. The DA easily argued this away as obfuscation on his part, but then other discrepancies began to emerge. The florist who sold Castiel the poppies came forward with CCTV to back up her own statement that he was wearing his trenchcoat, not the jacket. Expert analysis of the alarm system showed it being deactivated within five minutes of him leaving her shop. A fit young detective sent to check the timings reported it took him ten minutes even at a fast run and even if he had used a cab, no record of which could be found, there was not enough time.

The young restaurant employee, from whom the jacket had been retrieved could not identify Castiel as the man who came claiming to have lost his cloakroom ticket, but describing the jacket he had left the night before in accurate detail She described him as tall and thin, a gaunt-looking man, “nuttin like that blue-eyed cutie, you got in that photo.”

The final nail in the prosecution's case comes from their own forensic laboratory. Balthazar had fought his attacker, and this man for the DNA was male had also cut himself on the knife, probably slicing his own hands as the handle became slippery with Bal’s blood. He had used bleach to clean the bathroom, but an astute evidence technician had spotted a ring of tell tale round droplets at the foot of the bed and around his bathroom. The DNA recovered does match that DNA recovered from the rubber gloves. But neither it nor the latent prints carefully recovered by turning the gloves inside out and using cyanoacrylate fuming are on the national databases, nor are they a match to Castiel’s own. In short he cannot be the one who vandalised the painting, and someone else was certainly present and responsible for using the knife during the attack on his friend.

The cops did try to argue he may just have an accomplice or accomplices unknown, but there is nothing but poor quality circumstantial evidence to link him to the murder of his friend and in an election year, the DA has no interest in potentially losing such an important case. And the judge rules him cleared of all charges, pending further evidence.

He leaves the attorneys office, his few belongings in a simple clear plastic bag, and his trench coat over his arm. He catches the subway and exits at the very last stop, making his way towards the very bus station where Balthazar found him nearly a decade earlier as a frightened 17 year old.


	21. Wicked Game

The Collective

The door to his cell closes with a clang, but Castiel remains still. He doesn’t trust these assholes an inch. It's perhaps proof of how near hysteria he is that his internalised conditioning doesn't kick in with the sudden bad language in his thoughts. And, they are. They are assholes. They were expecting him to fall unconscious, which means only one thing. The pills he has tucked in his cheek behind his teeth, that taste so bitter as the sugar coat begins to melt are not just innocent fucking painkillers. There is little he can do to stop them slowly melting, while he waits, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and his face placid. Eventually, his patience is rewarded, he hears someone move and the door opens and closes once more.

He sits up immediately and spits the pills into his hand, rinsing his mouth with all the saliva he can muster and spits carefully down the side of the bed. His cheek and gum are tingling and numb, he has no idea what they were, but he bets on them being something similar to whatever they hell they put in his lemonade.

He listens carefully, but beside the slight swish of his own pulse in his ears, there is nothing. The building has a background hum, you can’t have cells with no windows without some ventilation, but beyond that, all is quiet. The chain and metal cuff lie curled on the floor. It’s still attached to the d-ring in the floor, but the length of it, intended to let him move around the entirety of the cell might mean he can use it as a weapon. Swung around his head and released at the right moment, it’s heavy enough to do some damage.

He stands a little unsteadily, and pulls the mattress up. The cot is useless as a weapon. It’s an unsprung board, but it will make a shield. He sighs. This is foolish. Neither thing will help him escape this room. All the have to do is wait him out if he tries.

He has already investigated the door. There is no lock to pick, they are not that stupid. They bolt it top and bottom, and then he realises. He listened to the door closing. He was so intent on listening for someone still in the room, for the tell tale sound of someone leaving. He listened to the door closing and it closed softly. The sound it made. It closed _softly._

Hardly daring to believe he pads to the door. It could be a trap, but he has to try. He has to. He closes his hand over the handle and turns it, the latch clicks back and it is staggeringly loud to his oversensitive ears, but the door opens.

He has no idea what the layout is. He woke in this cell and the few tales of Quarantine that he has heard were not about the building. One of the main reasons it works so well as a tool is because those who have been here won’t talk about it, other than as a truly terrifying experience. And even that much is enough to get you thrown back in.

The door opens onto a long corridor. An empty blank stretch of concrete. There are doors along one side, each identical to the one he has just opened. The roof stretches away at an angle, high above him. Bare industrial bulbs hanging at regular intervals. He is as trapped here as he is in his cell, so his only option is to keep moving until there are no more walls, until there is no roof, between him and the sky.

One end of the corridor ends in a blank wall, the other has a door. It has to be the exit Nothing else makes sense, but it has bolts, top and bottom, just like his own. All the doors have them. None are bolted shut. If it weren’t for the ache in his bones, he would swear he was trapped in a nightmare. Every second he stands here paralised is a greater chance that someone will come back.

Then he glances at the floor. The concrete which at first seemed one homogenous grey surface, is actually subtly marked. Years of use have grooved and worn it in places, especially the doorways. And it is not the concrete floor under the far door that is the most worn. It is the door two down from his own. He walks toward it, still hearing nothing but the claustrophobic drone of some distant fan and the internal sounds of his own body. He will his pulse to quieten and realises he is holding his breath, poised with his hand on the door handle. It’s now or never. He steadies himself, ready to face whatever is on the other side, when it turns under his hand and the door swings into him as someone else pushes it open.

He falls back, using the door as cover. So long as they don’t turn and look back he can slip out of the door behind them, if they do notice him he will have to barge them off balance and make a run for it while they raise the alarm.

But he needs to do neither, his face splitting into a wide smile as his friend greets him with a relieved whisper, “Castiel!”

“Inias,” Cas whispers back, “what are you doing here?”

It is possibly the stupidest question he has ever asked, and Inias doesn’t need to say so. Just pulls a ‘what do you think’ face. He hugs Cas briefly and takes his hand. “Come,” he says, quietly, “We have about twenty minutes at most.”

The night air is chill and there is no moon. Only the central buildings on The Collective have a permanent electricity supply and it is not wasted on exterior lighting. Inias leads him away from the pool of light at the entrance to the cell block and the dimly lit vehicle sheds into the darkness. He does not speak, using gestures to guide Castiel behind him and Castiel follows suit. If Inias thinks they should maintain their silence, Castiel trusts him to know.

Inias signals Castiel to wait with the flat of his hand, ducks down ahead of him, dropping onto all fours, the only thing still visible in the gloom is the top line of the fence where it catches the limited rays of light above the shadow of the building. Inias crawls towards where the base of the fence must be. Castiel can hear him shuffle over the ground and just about make out his shape in the dark and then he simply disappears. After what seems like an eternity to Castiel, he hears a low whistle, which he assumes to be his call to follow suit.

He creeps forward, he can see absolutely nothing. The ground feels gritty under his hands and knees, sharp stones scratching into his skin. It’s a small price to pay. Behind him he hears a shout and he can’t help but speed up. Then the ground is gone from beneath him and even as he is falling he hears the blaring sound of the general alarm.


End file.
